Smuggler's Inn
by Nutterfly
Summary: Sam Leaps into a spooky old mansion on the anniversary of a grisly murder, tho Al insists there's another mission. Sam can't get the family to talk of anything but the murder, while Al is shaking in his gold metallic sneakers at the eerie goings-on.
1. Chapter 1

**Smuggler's Inn**

Chapter 1

Dr. Sam Beckett felt the familiar sensation of a Leap beginning. He sensed the energy building, knew that if anyone had been there to watch they would see a blue aura begin to surround his body. As the Leap became more imminent they would witness the aura crackling with electricity, like little jolts of lightning. From his perspective he Leaped out of one situation and immediately Leaped into another, though he knew that wasn't true. He went Somewhere in between, Somewhere where he could rest and heal before being sent on another mission. Wherever that was, there was no one to see him leave.

The intensity of the Leap process began to fade but just when Sam was sure he'd arrived his eyes were assaulted by a flare of dazzling white light, temporarily blinding him. Had something gone wrong? His body jerked involuntarily from the surprise of it and he realized he was holding hands with someone on either side of him; they both tightened their grip so the contact wouldn't be broken. He heard a great crash of noise rumbling above his head. His sight began to come back and he could see he was sitting at a table with several other people, all holding hands in an unbroken chain. No one spoke a word.

_Ooh, boy!_ Sam thought. _What's going on here?_

The room was dimly lit, making it difficult for him to see the others' faces. As his eyes adjusted to the faint light he could make out a darker patch on the wall in front of him. His brain confirmed it as a window when he saw a jagged fork of lightning through it in the distance. He could hear the rushing sound of driving rain beating against the glass. He'd Leaped into the middle of a thunderstorm! He felt just a little sheepish at his confusion, but at least maybe no one had noticed.

He began taking stock of his surroundings, though it was difficult to see clearly. Several large candles had been placed on tables and other surfaces surrounding the group, casting an eerie, flickering light on the room while leaving faces in shadow. He counted six other people at the table, two men and four women. The candlelight glinted on something metallic in the center of the table and Sam realized it was a large old-fashioned man's pocket watch.

About that time the old woman at the head of the table spoke. "Cyrus?" she asked in a pleading voice. "Are you there? We beseech you to speak to us. We are seven in this circle of power, a potent number. We ask that you appear before us."

Thunder rumbled outside and the rain continued to pour down, but otherwise silence reigned. The two men looked down at the table directly in front of them as if they were embarrassed to meet anyone's eyes.

One of the two middle-aged women flicked her eyes toward the older woman. "Father of my husband," she intoned, "speak to us. We would have you tell us what happened two years ago this very night." She turned her head to the man seated on her right and raised her eyebrows in a visual shrug. Sam got the idea she was just playing along.

Several minutes ticked by while nothing happened. Another bright flash of lightning stabbed their eyes, followed immediately by a loud crack of thunder. The other man shifted uncomfortably in his chair and looked at the old woman, clearly wondering how much longer this would last.

Sam caught sight of movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to look. There was some kind of stuffed animal head mounted on the wall beside the window; something large with antlers, a moose or elk, he wasn't sure. What he was sure of was that there was a heavy mist flowing in two streams from the animal's nostrils. He frowned a bit in concentration, wondering if this emanation might somehow be caused by cold air flowing in from outside through some small crevice in the wall. As a scientist it never occurred to him to consider a supernatural explanation.

An instant later Al appeared, his face momentarily merged with the trophy head, smoking cigar in one hand and handlink in the other. "Hi Sam," he said. "I guess Ziggy didn't do a very good job of centering me on you. The storm must be interfering."

Al emerged from the wall and considered the situation. "Where's the Ouija board?" he asked, voice heavy with sarcasm. He wore black slacks, a black-and-white patterned shirt, and a fire-engine red jacket and fedora. Even in the gloom he stood out vividly.

He realized Sam was looking at him rather oddly and said, "Whassa matter, Sam? It's not like you've never seen me walk through walls before." He twisted his body around to see behind him and found himself nose-to-snout with the hairy moose head.

"Yaaaah!" Al yelled as he scuttled away. He realized he was standing in mid-air and stabbed frantically at the buttons on the handlink until his feet appeared to be touching the floor. Another bolt of lightning struck at that moment, briefly showing the room in stark relief; thunder followed immediately. Al jumped in reflex, then put his hand to his chest in relief as he realized it was just the storm. "Geez, Sam. Kinda spooky, isn't it?" Sam nodded his head slightly in response.

Across the table from Sam the youngest woman shivered and looked over her shoulder at the spot where Al was standing. "Grandfather?" she asked with an edge of fear in her voice. "Is that you?"

"Cyrus, if you're here with us tonight, give us a sign of your presence," the old woman said. "We have your beloved old watch here, the one your father gave to you. Let your spirit focus on that and come to us. Move the watch and we'll know you're here."

A thin wailing noise began and everyone at the table looked around to pinpoint its source. The sound became deeper, a sepulchral creak that stretched out for several seconds. It ended with a sharp thump. All heads turned to see a heavy door standing wide open; they held their collective breath but nothing further happened. Sam heard the other middle-aged woman whisper, "It vas not closed firmly enough to latch."

The old woman returned her attention to the center of the table with a look of determination on her face. "Cyrus, please," she begged. "We need to know what happened. Your spirit cannot rest until we know the truth!"

"Sounds like somebody was murdered," Al commented a little uneasily.

The man seated next to the daughter-in-law shifted in his chair. Abruptly he stood, shaking off the grip of his neighbors. "It isn't working, Mother," he said firmly. "I told you it was nonsense."

"Oh, but you didn't give it a _chance_, Charles," she said.

Charles strode to the wall and flipped the light switch, bathing the room in bright electric light. He was in his late forties; a tall man with short black hair and cold grey eyes. He had a sturdy build, with the beginnings of a paunch that strained against the vest of his three-piece black pin-stripe suit.

Everyone but the old woman stood up and began moving around the room as if to put some distance between themselves and the recent activity at the table. Sam noticed that the other man picked up a glass of dark liquid and drained it off. He was a young man of average height, rather non-descript looks with shaggy brown hair. He was tanned and fit, but wore slightly shabby slacks and lightweight sweater.

The old woman remained forlornly in her place. She was a short, plump woman with short fluffy white hair and bright blue eyes. The young woman went to her and patted her shoulder. "It's all right, Grandma Rose," she told her. "You tried, and I appreciate that. You know how much I want to find out what _really_ happened."

Rose squeezed the woman's hand. "I was so sure it would work," she said sadly. Then she smiled a little, obviously determined to maintain a positive attitude. "I know your Matthew didn't do it, Dottie. We _will_ get to the bottom of this, I'm sure of it. You'd better go check on Jeanne, and I think I'll go to bed myself. Maybe Cyrus will come to me in a dream."

Dottie helped her grandmother up and they left together. Dottie looked to be in her late twenties. She was a few inches taller than Rose; her oval face was framed by long curly black hair and Sam could see that her eyes were gray like Charles'.

Sam looked around to see the room now that the lights were on. It appeared to be a library. The walls were paneled in dark wood where they weren't lined with bookcases full of expensive-looking old books. In addition to the moose head there were several other mounted trophies, dark oil paintings, crossed swords, and even a coat of arms on the walls in between the bookcases. It looked like something you'd picture in an old English mansion, but the people hadn't spoken with British accents. Al knew that Sam wasn't able to talk to him at the moment, so he wandered around the large room inspecting the books.

"You didn't have to be so cruel, she was only trying to help," the daughter-in-law was saying. She was a good six inches shorter than her husband, with dark auburn hair cut short. Her blue eyes regarded Charles coolly as if her words were more from habit than true reprimand.

"It'd gone on long enough, Adele," Charles replied. "Father didn't believe in that bunk and neither do I. I put up with it for her sake, but I'd had enough. And speaking of enough, I don't believe you need any more to drink, Tony. Mother asked you to join us; it's time you left."

Tony had been in the act of pouring another drink, but now he set the lead-crystal decanter back on the table and dropped the stopper in with a clink. He drank down what was in the glass and set it on the table. "Yes, Sir," he said simply, but there was an edge of sullenness to his voice. "Goodnight, Sir." He turned and left. Sam thought he had an idea why the young man had been so uncomfortable.

"That door certainly gave me a fright!" Adele said. "I've never believed in séances myself, but just for a moment I wondered if it might be working."

"Ach, you know how this house she has settled," the other middle-aged woman said. "With that door in particular you must be careful to make sure you hear the click." She was taller than the other women, a thin figure with graying blonde hair worn shoulder-length in what Sam thought of as an old-fashioned style with the ends curled under.

Adele laughed a little self-consciously. "Yes, Susan, you'd think I'd know that by now. You certainly jumped, Steven."

Sam realized she was speaking to him. "Ah, no," he said hesitantly. "Actually it was the lightning that startled me."

Al hurried to his side, aware that his services were needed. "That's your mother, Sam," he said.

"Oh, yes. That was just before the door opened. It certainly is a wild night, the _perfect_ setting for this, like something out of a scary movie. Perhaps we'll see the ghost tonight," Adele said gleefully.

"Ghost?" Al inquired a bit nervously.

"You don't really believe that, Dear," Charles said. There was no warmth in the endearment.

Adele turned to regard him with some amusement. "Perhaps I'll set out my camera and see if I can catch her on film. Then we'd all have to believe this old house is haunted." She turned to Sam with a twinkle in her eyes. "What do you think, Steven? Is this a night the ghost will walk the upstairs halls?"

Sam favored her with a wicked little grin. "Absolutely, Mother. But I doubt you'll get a picture of her, ghosts are notoriously camera-shy."

"Sam?" Al asked in confusion. "What are you saying? You don't believe in ghosts!"

"Well, it'll be fun trying," Adele replied. "It's good to have you home, even if it's just for the weekend."

"He only came because Mother insisted," Charles said. "I'll leave you to your ghost-hunting, I've got to look over some papers. Goodnight." With that he left the room.

Susan approached them and asked, "Vill you need anythingk else?"

"No, you go on to bed," Adele told her. "I'll be up for awhile with the cameras. I'm not sure yet where I'll place them, so be careful you don't trip over them in the morning. Steven, surely you won't be going out again on such a nasty night."

Another bolt of lightning sizzled outside as if to emphasize her statement.

"No," Sam replied. "In fact, I think I'll just go to bed myself."

She gave him a kiss on the cheek, wished him a good night, and left, leaving Sam alone with Al. He turned to Al and said, "You should've seen your face when I told her she'd see the ghost tonight!"

"You did that just to tease me," Al accused.

Sam nodded. "And it worked, too! Where am I, Al? What's going on here? Who's this Cyrus fellow we were trying to contact from beyond the grave?"

Al had begun punching buttons on the handlink but paused to look up from under his eyebrows; there was a cringing expression on his face. "Did you have to say it like that? What if there's some, I don't know, residual energy or something left over from that ritual." He looked around the room uncertainly. "That might be all it takes to summon his spirit."

"I'm sorry, Al," Sam said. His smile said he really wasn't. "If this room bothers you so much, then tell me where my, uh, _Steven's_ room is. We can talk there without worrying that anyone hears us. Uh, me."

Al consulted the handlink, glad to have something normal to occupy his thoughts. "I'll just see if Ziggy can pull up the plans for this house," he muttered. "Oh, here it is. This house is _big_! This is my kind of place, it's got bedrooms all over."

"I'm just interested in finding my own bedroom," Sam said.

"Let's try the second floor, the ground floor here is all public rooms. Library, dining room, parlor, office, kitchen, that kind of stuff. Go out that door there and up the stairs."

Sam followed directions and they began ascending the stairs. The wooden staircase and banister had an air of age about them; they silently spoke of the careful craftsmanship of a bygone era. Sam noticed that the treads were a little worn but they seemed sound. About halfway up a step creaked as he stepped on it.

Al jumped and looked around worriedly. "What was that?"

"It's just the stairs," Sam said. He rocked his weight from side to side so that it squeaked repeatedly. Overhead thunder rumbled ominously.

"Don't _do_ that, Sam!" Al begged.

Sam grinned and continued up the stairs. At the top they found themselves at the end of a long hallway. There was a small lamp on a console table about halfway down the length; its low-wattage bulb seemed to throw more shadows than light. It was hard to tell whether the doors lining the hall were closed as they were made of some dark wood that seemed to absorb the faint light, creating Stygian shapes in the wall.

Sam stood where he was, unsure which door might conceal his room. He could feel a cold draft seeping through the large window beside the landing. Another great spear of lightning crackled overhead, illuminating the corridor starkly with its bright flash. Al's hand jerked in alarm. In the returning gloom the lights on the handlink seemed to leave visible trails with the motion.

"Which room is mine?" Sam whispered, not wanting to speak loudly in case there was anyone occupying any of the rooms.

Al looked rapidly left, right, up, and down to make sure there wasn't a ghost watching them. "I don't know, Sam," he said. "All the blueprint shows is that these are bedrooms. It's not like they're labeled with names like the drawing in the front of an Agatha Christie book."

"Well why don't you make like a ghost and check 'em out," Sam suggested.

Al directed an uncertain glance at Sam. "Make like a ghost," he muttered. "You could've chosen a better metaphor." Nevertheless he faced the nearest door and melted through it.

Since he had nothing better to do at the moment Sam walked down the hall to the table to inspect the lamp. The shade was made of stained glass, he tapped it with a fingernail to be sure it wasn't plastic. Vivid green leaves appeared to fall from the top, supporting large clusters of pink and purple blooms and the bottom edge was ragged to enhance the natural theme. The brass upright was cast in the shape of a rough branch.

Al stuck his head through the door of the room next to the table. "This has gotta be the one," he said. "All the others either have people in 'em or the furniture's covered with dust cloths."

"Al, is this a real Tiffany lamp?" Sam asked quietly. "It's beautiful, look at the detail."

"Who cares?" Al asked a bit harshly. "I mean, who knows? Probably, these people must be filthy rich. Would you come on in here, Sam, and turn the light on?"

Sam opened the door and felt for the switch. The room was large and filled with furniture in an old-fashioned style; heavy dark wood with lots of carved accents. A four-poster bed took up one corner, but there was still room for separate sitting and dressing areas. The walls were papered in a blue striped pattern and bright Persian carpets defined the different areas, leaving an expanse of wood floor between them.

"Are you sure this is the right room?" Sam asked. "This looks like it could be the master bedroom."

Al pointed to a suitcase standing against the side of the dresser. "It's got the initials "SCC" on it, so it must be Steven's. Uh, it's Steven Cyrus Carmichael, by the way. He's 23 years young."

Sam walked over to confirm the initials, then turned to look in the mirror that sat atop the dresser. Steven appeared to be a chip off the old block. He was tall with a sturdy build but obviously athletic and in good shape. His black hair was cut short especially on the sides, but the slightly longer top was quite curly. He had grey eyes in a long thin face; even the nose and lips were long and thin. It was not a particularly handsome face; there was an air of self-absorption about it.

Lightning flickered outside the room's window. Sam turned away from the mirror to see Al looking nervously around.

"It's just a big storm, Al," he said calmly. "How come you're so jumpy tonight?"

"Well, the storm doesn't help," Al replied. "But it's not just that, it's this house. It's _haunted_, Sam."

Sam shook his head in mild amusement. "There's no such things as ghosts, Al. You know that." He felt a sudden sense of déjà vu. "Didn't we have this conversation once before? I thought we got all this settled."

Al looked even more uncomfortable. "Uh, that was vampires, Sam. You made me promise never ever to bring up the subject of vampires again. Ghosts are _completely_ different from vampires."

Sam realized that his teasing had gone too far. Al's fear of the supernatural was in full bloom and he wasn't going to get any answers until Al calmed down. He held up his hands, palms out, in a gesture of surrender. "OK, OK. You're absolutely right. But what makes you say the house is haunted?"

"Because Cyrus Carmichael was _murdered_ in this house exactly two years ago tonight."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Sam shook his head again in exasperation. "So the old man died here. That doesn't mean his spirit will hang around to haunt the family." His voice took on an excited edge. "Hey, is that why I'm here? To find out who killed him?"

"It's not _his_ ghost that haunts the place, there's nothing here about that," Al said as he looked at the handlink's readout. "It's his _mother's_ ghost that's supposed to walk the halls. Apparently she died under questionable circumstances at the turn of the last century. A lot of people say they've seen her ghost, _especially_ on stormy nights like _this_."

"The last century? What date is it?" Sam asked.

"Oh, it's Friday April 23, 1954. So it's the last century to _us_, not them. You're in Eau Grande, Michigan. That means big water; big, big, _big_ water. Well, this house isn't actually a part of the town; it's a few miles outside it, on the edge of Whitefish Bay and _that's_ at the eastern end of Lake Superior, a really big water. There's a lot of ships at the bottom of that lake, Sam; a lot of tales of shipwrecked sailors haunting this area."

Sam raised his eyebrows slightly, silently urging Al to answer his original question.

Al poked at the buttons for a minute. "No, Sam, that's not why you're here. They know who killed him; it was a Matthew Forrester. He's got lifetime quarters at the penitentiary. Oh, he's the husband of that pretty young girl, Dottie. She's the one who seemed to sense me when I showed up." Al began to look nervous again. "I'm not really sure why you're here; Ziggy hasn't had time to do all the research yet."

"It's not that I don't appreciate you showing up to help me out," Sam began, "but why didn't you wait until you had some answers?"

"It was the nozzle in the Waiting Room, Sam," he said. "He seemed to think he'd died and gone to Hell. He was scared witless, but he tried to cover it with bluster. Demanded to know where he was and how he'd gotten there."

"That's hardly unusual behavior under the circumstances," Sam said in a reasonable tone.

Al's face took on a slightly aggrieved look. "He addressed me as 'Old Scratch'!"

Sam looked pointedly at the bright red jacket and hat, and said, "I wonder where he got that idea."

"Ha, ha," Al said sarcastically. "You sound like Angelita, with her dress code in Heaven."

"I thought we were talking about Hell," Sam said, confused. He didn't know who Al was talking about.

"Well, now, Sam; you don't remember Angelita. But _I_ do! Anyway, Steven said he was here – in the Waiting Room – because of what he'd been doing when you Leapt in. So I thought I'd better come see what was going on; I thought you might be in trouble," he said. Then he added, "I wish I hadn't."

"Thanks, Al," Sam said, meaning it and ignoring that last comment. "But the only trouble I'm in at the moment is trying to figure out why I'm here."

Al brought up the handlink, his index finger poised over it ready for action.

"Let me see if I've got the Cast of Characters straight," Sam said. "Dottie is Cyrus' granddaughter."

"Dorothy Forrester, nee Carmichael. She's 27 years old, the daughter of Charles and Adele. She's got a little girl, Jeanne, she's only 6 so she's too young to have been at the séance. Oh, Dottie's your sister, Sam!"

"OK, and Charles is Cyrus' son," Sam continued.

"Yeah," Al agreed. "Rose is Cyrus' wife, uh widow, so she's Charles' mother and your and Dottie's grandmother."

"So who were the other two people down there tonight?" Sam asked.

"The woman is Susan Mueller. She's 56 and she's worked here since she was a young girl, she never married. She's the cook and housekeeper, apparently the only one these days," Al said.

"The guy is Tony Sundquist, he's 25 years old. He's the groundskeeper and general handyman. Oh, this is kinda interesting, Sam. Tony's father and _grand_father both worked for the Carmichael family all their lives so Tony's carrying on his own family tradition here. His father was killed in a car accident a few years ago, apparently he'd had too much to drink and ran off the road; his car crashed into a big tree, killed him instantly."

"Seems like Tony's carrying on another family tradition," Sam said meaningfully. "Am I here to keep him from driving drunk?"

Al consulted the handlink again. "No, that's not it either. After his father died his mother went to live with relatives in another town and Tony moved in here. He marries a local girl, they both work here until the house is sold in 1968. After that he does odd jobs around the area, but he's retired now."

"Did Dottie re-marry?" Sam asked.

"No," Al said as he studied the readout. "She never divorced her husband. She thinks he was innocent of the murder, even though the jury convicted him. He died in prison several years ago. She's living in the family's house in Chicago."

"What about her daughter, did you say her name is Jeanne?" Sam asked.

Al punched a few more buttons. Lightning flickered outside, but the storm seemed to be passing and in any case Al was absorbed in his task and didn't notice it. "Oh, now here's something, Sam! Jeanne runs away from home when this place is sold; she joins a hippie commune out in California." He shook his head sadly. "She gets into drugs and dies of an apparent overdose."

Sam looked confused. "But why am I here in 1954 if I'm supposed to keep Jeanne from running away in 1968?"

"I don't know, Sam," Al said. He checked the handlink for more data. "It must have something to do with the sale of the house, but that doesn't happen for another 14 years. Ziggy says the family fortune steadily dwindles, apparently Charles isn't as good a businessman as his father was. Maybe you're here to help him make some decision that will save the business."

"You'd think Steven would know more about the family business than I do, Al," Sam said.

"Well, no, Steven isn't interested in the business," Al told him. "He seems to be the spoiled playboy type, he'd rather spend money than work to make it."

"What kind of business are we talking about, anyway?" Sam asked.

"They're in the import business," Al replied. "Thaddeus Carmichael – that's Cyrus' father – he started the business in the 1850's. He imported luxury goods; furniture, china, silver, fabrics, art, jewelry, that kind of thing. He was one of those rags-to-riches kinda guys, made a fortune at it. He built this house as a kind of family getaway from the big city." Al waved a hand vaguely to indicate the surrounding structure, the smoke from his cigar leaving trails in the air. "Apparently he assumed he'd have a large family but it didn't work out that way."

"I don't know anything about the importing business," Sam said. "How am I supposed to help him?"

Al was still reading what Ziggy had downloaded to the handlink. "It says here that Cyrus made even more dough than his old man. Oh, but that was partly because he allegedly got into smuggling. This is real close to the Canadian border. Lots of stuff got smuggled over that border, especially during the 20's. Illegal booze, duty-free cigarettes, stuff like that. He already had the infrastructure and connections, it would've been easy for him to move contraband."

"Drugs?" Sam asked. "Is that maybe where Jeanne gets mixed up in drugs?"

"Nah, this is 1954, Sam. A respectable businessman wouldn't _touch_ drugs no matter how much money he could make. There's no indication that they were into anything like that."

"Then what happens to make Charles run the business into the ground?"

"_That_ appears to be the $64,000 question, Sam. Apparently the business is already losing money, and it gets worse over the next few years. Charles is caught red-handed with smuggled goods in 1967. That's what really kills the business. He spends a small fortune on lawyers but ends up in jail anyway. Steven is left to run the business, but there wasn't much left and that's why he sells the house."

"So, what? I'm here to convince Charles to stop smuggling?" Sam asked in some puzzlement.

Al poked at the handlink, then looked at Sam. "Ziggy gives that an 86% probability," he said. "She's not really sure how that would improve the business, but if Charles doesn't go to jail at least maybe the house won't be sold. And Jeanne, you know in the 60's a lot of rich kids felt guilty about their folks' money. Maybe the added shame of her granddaddy going to jail was enough to make her decide to chuck it all and go live with the hippies."

"So if Charles stops smuggling then he won't go to jail, the house won't be sold, and maybe Jeanne won't run away," Sam summed it up. "But how am I supposed to do that? If I'm here in 1954 that must mean that Charles makes some change this weekend, something that backfires and that he can't reverse. Can Ziggy get into his financial records, does she have any idea what it might be?"

Al shook his head. "The business records are all on the up-and-up, there's no problems there. So it's gotta have something to do with the smuggling, Sam. Those records would be off-the-record, so to speak."

A low groaning noise came from the direction of the hallway, followed by a thump. Al shivered and looked at the closed bedroom door as if expecting a ghost to float through it at any moment.

"It's just someone opening a door," Sam said in a reassuring tone. "Charles coming up to bed or maybe Adele going to put out her cameras."

Al's face had started to relax but suddenly he looked nervous again. "Sam, she's putting out the cameras to try to catch a _ghost_!"

"Well, why don't you go back and see what you can dig up on the smuggling. I'll talk to the family in the morning and see what _I_ can unearth," Sam said.

Al had raised the handlink and his finger was poised to stab the button that opened the Imaging Chamber door. "Dig up? Unearth?" he asked uneasily.

"Ghosts aren't buried!" Sam said. "I don't believe in ghosts, I'll be fine. You can come back tomorrow when it's daylight and let me know what you've found out."

"OK, 'night Sam." Al gave the bedroom door one final anxious look before opening the door to the Imaging Chamber and disappearing.

Sam woke up Saturday morning to find the sun shining brightly through the window, and no signs of last night's storm. Despite the size of the room there was no _en suite_, so Sam wrapped a dressing gown around himself and slipped on a pair of house shoes. He went out into the hallway and stood there looking back and forth. All the doors were closed. _Steven probably grew up in this house_, he thought. _He'd certainly know where the bathroom was!_

He walked to the far end of the hall and hesitantly opened a door. It opened onto a smaller bedroom; apparently this one wasn't being used as the furniture was swathed in heavy dust cloths, and thick curtains covered the windows. He tried several other doors with the same result; the rooms were all cool as if the heat had been shut off. Sam figured that had been done in an attempt to save money.

His explorations revealed the rooms of the other family members, and thankfully none of them were there when Sam opened the door. Rose still occupied what had to be the master suite; Sam would be willing to bet that Cyrus' clothes still hung in the closet though he didn't check. Dottie's room was obvious as there was a small bed for Jeanne, whose toys were scattered on the floor. Apparently Charles and Adele had separate rooms. The bathroom turned out to be across the hall from his own room.

Some time later, suitably showered and shaved, Sam headed downstairs to see about breakfast and find out where everyone was. Rose, Dottie, and little Jeanne were in the dining room, lingering over breakfast.

"My, my," Dottie said teasingly. "I didn't think you got up before noon!"

"Hi, Uncle Steven," Jeanne piped up. "Susan made me pancakes shaped like animals!" Jeanne was a darling little girl with long curly brown hair, brown eyes, rosy cheeks, and big dimples. She wore a pink dress with a large lace collar; perhaps it scratched her neck, as she pulled at it frequently.

"She did!" Sam said. "Wasn't that nice of her?"

"Good morning, Dear," Rose said rather formally. She tilted her head in a way that indicated she expected a kiss on the cheek.

Sam walked to the head of the table and dutifully complied. "Good morning, everyone," he said. "I'm starved, is there anything left?"

Susan had apparently heard him make his entrance; she came in carrying a cup of coffee. "Good morning, Steven. I didn't expect you so early to be up. I can make you some eggs and bacon, if that would be all right."

"Thanks, Susan," Sam said. "Whatever you've got will be fine, don't go to any trouble on my account."

Susan nodded her head, but looked at him a little funny.

"I could use a little more coffee," Dottie said.

Susan left and Sam sat down at the table. "Where's uh, Mom and Dad?" he asked.

Dottie rolled her eyes before she replied. "Where else?" she asked rhetorically. "Dad's in the office and Mom's out somewhere taking pictures of something. She'll be in her darkroom all afternoon. That's where she was the night Grandfather was killed, remember?"

"Uh, yeah," Sam said vaguely.

"I needed to ask her what to do for Jeanne's fever, but she wouldn't let me open the door," she mused. "Not that she didn't want to help, but she didn't want me to spoil the photographs. I had to stand there talking through the closed door. I told the police that."

"Of course you did," Sam said, wondering if they should be discussing this subject in front of the child.

"I was sick that night," Jeanne said in a matter-of-fact voice. "Mommy and Grandma Rose stayed with me the whole night."

"Your mommy stayed with you, Dear," Rose told her. "Your poor old grandmother had to get some sleep, I can't stay up like I used to. I remember taking my sleeping pill like I always did; Cyrus was still in the office working. He worked so hard. I hoped he'd come to bed before I fell asleep, but of course he didn't."

"Matthew knew Mom was in the darkroom, too," Dottie continued. "He'd gone upstairs to get something and she heard the door shut. She thought it was me and called out to ask if Jeanne was all right and they talked for a minute." Her face grew pensive. "Of course neither one of them remembered what time that happened. The police insisted that was when Matthew was either retrieving the murder weapon, or getting rid of it."

"But they never found it," Rose said. "They can't even tell us what it _was_. You'd think something heavy enough to smash poor Cyrus' skull would be hard to get rid of. They searched the office where they found him but they never found anything."

"They searched the house, too," Susan said. She'd brought the coffeepot to refill Dottie's cup. "They tear up the whole house, a lot of extra work they make for me. Ach, it would be glad I was to put it back in order, if only they had found something. But not to know, it makes me sad." She patted Dottie's shoulder. "I know Mr. Forrester, he did not kill your grandfather."

Dottie squeezed Susan's hand, but said nothing.

"I vill haf your breakfast out in a moment," Susan told Sam.

"Your father was in his room," Rose said. "He was speaking to a business associate in…" She shook her head to indicate she couldn't remember.

"California," Dottie supplied. "I've always wondered about that. I mean, I understand the time difference, it's three hours earlier on the west coast; but that would still mean it was 7pm there. What kind of business is open that late?"

Sam perked up on hearing this. Could it have been something to do with the smuggling? "I know the police checked that out," he ventured.

"Oh, yes," Rose replied. "It's so sad that they think Charles might have killed his own father, but they checked the telephone records and the man told them he'd had a long talk with Charles about, well, something." She looked a little vague.

"Shipping schedules, something like that," Dottie said. "The police had to check out all our alibis, just to be sure." She turned to Sam with a playful smile on her face. "Of course yours was easy, Steven. Half the town could vouch that you'd been in the Moosehead all evening."

"Well, you know…" Sam muttered. The Moosehead sounded like a tavern. But then Al had said that Steven liked to spend money and a bar was probably the only place he could do it in a small town.

Susan brought his breakfast in at that point. "I vas listening to the radio in the parlor," she volunteered. "I can vork with the knitting so I can be available if anyone calls for me. But no one did that night."

"Thanks, Susan," Sam told her. "This looks delicious." He wanted to get back to that 'business' call to see if he could learn more about the smuggling. Unfortunately everyone else seemed to want to talk about the murder, and now they were getting up to leave the table.

"Enjoy your breakfast, Steven," Rose told him. "I need to get the paints ready, the light should be good soon."

"And I need to make a shopping list," Dottie said. "Do you need anything?"

"Don't think so," Sam said. "Are you gonna leave me here to eat by myself?"

"I'll stay with you, Uncle Steven," Jeanne said. She smiled impishly. "But _only_ if you promise to carry me upstairs piggyback."

Sam grinned back at her. "Deal!" he said.

Rose and Dottie left and Jeanne chattered brightly while Sam ate. She was a smart girl who loved living in this big house in the country. She explained that her mother was teaching her now that her daddy had gone away. Sam's heart ached for her; it was clear she missed her father terribly and didn't understand why he was taken away. He had to get to the bottom of the smuggling so she wouldn't run away and get into drugs.

When he was finished with his breakfast Sam picked Jeanne up and sat her on his shoulders. Jeanne squealed joyfully and demanded that he run up the stairs; Sam pushed off from each step so that she would bounce, though he kept a firm hold on her legs so she wouldn't fall. Dottie poked her head out of Rose's room to find out what the noise was about, and smiled to see her daughter having so much fun. Jeanne protested being put down at the second floor landing but Dottie agreed with Sam that she'd had enough.

"You need to go pick up your toys, young lady," Dottie said in a voice that was meant to be stern but failed miserably. "I'll be along in a minute when I'm finished checking Grandma's room."

Jeanne made a face, but walked toward her room. Sam followed Dottie into Rose's room; she picked up her shopping list and went back to looking in drawers and cabinets, occasionally jotting something down.

"Can I talk to you for a minute, Dottie?" he asked.

"Sure," she said, rather absent-mindedly.

"It's about, uh, Dad's phone call to California the night Grandfather was killed," he began.

Dottie looked up from her work. "What about it?" she asked.

"You said you always wondered about it. Why is that?"

Dottie frowned a little, then shrugged. "It just seemed funny that he'd be talking about business so late at night. He always spends a lot of time going over accounts and writing letters and that sort of thing, and he often calls people if he has questions. Maybe it was just because it was nearly 10:00, it seemed odd to me."

"Do you think he was calling after business hours because he was talking about something illegal?" Sam asked. "Something the other man wouldn't have wanted overheard by his staff?"

Dottie looked confused. "Illegal? What are you talking about, Steven?"

"Like maybe smuggling?" Sam suggested.

Dottie laughed at that. "Smuggling? _Dad_? He's such a stickler for propriety I can't imagine him doing anything like that! He's all dollars and cents; I can't _imagine_ him having secret meetings in some alley. Just in case you haven't noticed, he's not the most personable man; he's not the kind who'd slap anyone on the back in camaraderie. He'd probably refuse to shake if a man's hands were dirty."

"You've seen too many old movies," Sam said. "The men who run a smuggling operation look just a proper as Dad. They _hire_ people to do the dirty work."

"Well, I still can't picture it," she said. She glanced around the room to make sure she hadn't missed anything. "I'd better go check on Jeanne. She's probably playing instead of picking up."

Sam followed Dottie as she left, intending to pursue the matter further. They found Jeanne sitting on the floor happily playing with her toys. Dottie told her to pick up the toys and stood there with her arms crossed on her chest, foot tapping, watching. Sam felt a little awkward, and certainly didn't want to talk about illegal business deals in front of the child.

He wandered over to the window and looked out. Last night's storm had left the landscape clean and fresh, and the sun was shining brightly. He saw movement at the edge of a copse of trees; that was probably Adele taking photographs.

He turned back to the room and noticed a framed photo on the dresser. It was a family group, Dottie and her husband standing with their arms around each other and little Jeanne in front of them. _That must be Matthew_, Sam thought. Judging from Dottie's height, the man stood just under six feet tall. His had short sandy hair and a mustache. Though his frame was slight, his shoulders looked quite muscular yet his legs were thinner than normal. He was smiling for the camera, but Sam could see lines around his mouth and eyes that spoke of pain.

Dottie wandered over and took the photo from Sam's hands. She smiled sadly, and brushed a fingertip lovingly across the man's face. "Mom took this picture last month," she said quietly. "Just before Matthew was convicted of killing Grandfather."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

"You think he's innocent," Sam said.

"You do too!" Dottie replied a little heatedly. "Oh I know, you're the one who told the police about that big argument Matt had with Grandfather, but if you hadn't then someone else would have."

"Yeah, the argument," Sam said, as if he knew all about it.

"Grandfather wanted to sell the house, and Matthew didn't want him to," she said. "You remember how angry they both got; they were yelling so loud we all came running to see what the fuss was about. Dad pretended to be on Grandfather's side, but I think it was more fear of the old man than anything. The rest of us hoped Grandfather would change his mind, but we knew that arguing with him the way Matt was wasn't the way to make it happen."

"No one likes to be yelled at," Sam said.

"Grandfather never did like Matt, so that just made it worse. He thought Matt was weak, did I ever tell you that? Just because he was injured in the war and had to use crutches, or a cane. A weak man wouldn't try to walk, and Matt loved to walk all over the grounds. He preferred to live here; he said he felt like people stared at him in town."

_That would explain the pain etched on Matt's face,_ Sam thought. "You would think Grandfather would realize that any man who went off to war had to be pretty strong," he said.

"I didn't care about the crutches," Dottie continued. "I thought he was the most dashing man I'd ever seen when I met him at college. He's so kind and gentle, not bitter at all. I'm sure if he'd gotten his degree in accounting or business Grandfather would've at least found him useful. But Grandfather had no use for a writer."

Sam wished Al were there to fill him in, as he had no idea what Dottie was talking about and of course Steven would. "Writing is a legitimate profession," he commented.

"Maybe if he'd written history, or war stories, or even biographies," Dottie responded. "But romance novels? Grandfather didn't care that they were good and Matt made money; he thought that was the kind of thing women should write. Matt could've written anything he wanted, but he'd seen so much anguish during the war that he wanted to write about something happy."

"He wanted to put it all behind him," Sam said.

"Exactly," Dottie agreed. "He was working on his latest book when Grandfather was killed. He'd gone to the library after dinner; he kept the door closed so the noise of his typewriter didn't disturb us. He'd given me the pages he'd written during the day, I was supposed to proof-read them but I couldn't with Jeanne being sick. The point is, I _know_ how much he wrote that night, and how long it must've taken so he wouldn't have had time to be doing anything else."

"But the police didn't believe him," Sam hazarded a guess.

"No, he was the only one who couldn't really prove where he was," she confirmed. "And of course he wasn't a blood relative; it was easy for the prosecutor to convince the jury he was guilty because of that fact alone."

"I'm sorry," was all Sam could think of to say. He could well understand that she didn't want to believe her husband was guilty of murder despite the fact that he'd been convicted by a jury of his peers. He could also understand that the murder was on everyone's mind because of its anniversary, but it wasn't helping him find out anything about the smuggling.

"Mommy, I've put away all my toys, can I go outside and play now?" Jeanne asked.

Dottie looked at Jeanne's side of the room to verify her claim. "Yes, Sweetie," she said. "Just put on a coat and remember to be careful of that pretty dress."

"Okay," Jeanne said as she ran out of the room, the dress clearly already forgotten.

"Are you going back downstairs?" Dottie asked.

"Yeah," Sam said. "I want to go talk to Dad."

"Take my list to Susan then, so she can get the shopping done this afternoon."

Sam found Susan in the kitchen, cleaning up from breakfast. "Here's Dottie's list," he told her as he laid it on the counter. "I guess you're going shopping this afternoon."

"Ja, I vill go after lunch, so if you're needing anythingk you should tell me then," Susan said.

"Do you do all the shopping for the house?" he asked, a little unsure how he might broach the subject on his mind.

"Vy vood I not?" she asked.

"Oh, I don't know," Sam said. "I, uh…It seems like I remember that other people used to make deliveries here, when I was younger."

"Your Grandfather, he vood haf guests here quite often," Susan said. "They vood bringk to him gifts; brandy and cigars, and lengths of fine silk for the ladies. That is probably vhat you are remembering."

_I'm sure that's true_, Sam thought. Cyrus would've brought his business partners here for a weekend and they'd have given gifts to their host; that was the way things were done in Cyrus' day. But what kind of business were these partners in? Could some of these items have been in the way of proof of the illegal goods those men could provide? He began to warm to his lie.

"Maybe," he allowed. "It just seems like I'd wake up in the middle of the night, and look out my window and I'd see men unloading big boxes from trucks."

"You vere dreamingk," Susan said with a smile. "Alvays the automobiles you vere fascinated vith. You play vith your little toy trucks, then you dream of them. There vere no trucks on the lawn, I can assure you. Olaf vood not haf been happy that they tear up his grass."

Sam assumed that Olaf was Tony's father and further, that he would've been in on the smuggling. He'd not only help offload the goods, but clean up any signs of the activity afterward. Maybe that was where he got his taste for liquor, they probably gave him a couple bottles for his efforts. It was entirely possible that Susan would've been kept out of the loop; they wouldn't have needed her help and probably figured it was better if she didn't know. It was possible she was just protecting her employer, but Sam doubted it.

"You're probably right," he said, giving up on this line of questioning. "Is Dad still in his office?"

"Ja, I think so," she replied. "But you should vant to be careful interrupting him vhen he is vorking in there."

Personally Sam agreed 100% with Susan, but he wasn't getting anywhere and Charles was his best bet. "I know, but I need to talk to him," Sam said. "Thanks, Susan."

"You are velcome, young Steven," Susan said. From the look on her face Sam thought she hadn't heard that word from many people in this house.

Sam left the kitchen and went in search of Charles' office. He realized he had little idea where it was and wandered around the house looking for it. Where was Al with his plans of the house? He went into what was probably called a sitting room; Rose was on the terrace outside it, a half-finished picture on the easel in front of her.

"Steven, did you come out to see me?" she asked.

"Yes, Grandmother," he said. He couldn't very well tell her he was lost! He stepped outside and looked at her painting; it was really very good. She was painting a landscape of the side yard; a vast expanse of manicured grass dotted with islands of trees, flowerbeds, and faux Greek statuary. "It's coming along nicely," he said.

Rose cocked her head to look at it critically. "It seems to be lacking something."

"If you could get Jeanne to stand still you could paint her playing on the lawn," Sam suggested.

"Maybe it's just my imagination; we all seem to be lacking something lately," Rose said rather sadly.

Sam patted her shoulder. "You miss him, don't you?" he asked.

"Yes, I do," she said. "He was 75 years old, I didn't expect him to live forever. But to have him taken away in such a horrible way, that's what I can't understand. Matthew didn't do it, of that I'm sure. He'd seen too much killing during the war; he just wanted to make a happy life here with Dottie and Jeanne."

_Damn_, Sam thought. _I've done it again!_ "Wasn't he getting a little old to be working so late at night?" he asked, hoping the change the topic from murder to business.

"Oh, my no!" Rose exclaimed. "If he'd lived to be 100 he'd have still been working. It was in his blood. He got so much pleasure from making another deal."

"Did he tell you about those deals?" Sam asked. He didn't want to come out and make accusations against this woman's husband. Besides, he kept forgetting he was in 1954 when women weren't encouraged to know anything about business. Especially if that business weren't exactly legal.

"He tried to in the beginning," she said. "But it all seemed so boring and complicated to me, I couldn't understand. All those ships and trains, and now aeroplanes to keep track of – it was no wonder he spent so much time poring over papers and calling people on the telephone."

"Didn't you wonder what was on those ships and trains and planes?" he asked.

"He gave me anything I asked for; what did I care about the rest?" she asked. Her face took on an unfocused look. "Maybe I used the wrong object in the séance last night! Perhaps if I used some of his business papers his spirit would respond. I'll ask Charles if I can borrow an old ledger and we can try again."

It occurred to Sam that he ought to check out the company ledgers himself. Al was probably right that there were two sets of books, and the ones detailing the smuggling might be in the office somewhere. But another séance? "I guess you can use that next year," he told her. "The, um, spectral energy will be stronger on a meaningful date." Inwardly he winced, thinking that sounded like the kind of mumbo-jumbo Al would spout.

"Of course, Steven," Rose said seriously. "The anniversary of his funeral will do nicely."

_I hope I Leap out of here before then; Al will get the heebie-jeebies if he has to sit through another séance,_ Sam thought. "Okay, I, uh, have to go now. Do you need anything before I do?"

"I'm fine, Dear. I'll see you at lunch."

Sam went back inside and continued looking for the office. He could use Al's help finding his way around this huge old mansion, and wondered where he was. Surely he wasn't afraid of running into a ghost in the middle of the day!

Finally he heard a voice coming from behind a closed door; that had to be it. He listened at the door for a minute. He couldn't hear the words, but there were quiet pauses that indicated Charles was probably talking on the phone. Sam knocked on the door and called out, "Dad?"

He couldn't hear the response clearly so he opened the door a crack. It was a good-sized room and Charles was sitting at a large and ornate desk on the far side of it. He was scowling at the interruption but waved Sam in, pointing to the handset against his head. Sam nodded, then stepped in and looked around the room.

Except for the square black bakelite telephone, the office looked like something out of the Roaring 20's. The desk sat on one end of a large patterned carpet; two comfortable leather-upholstered chairs were placed in front of it, with a small table between them. A big cordovan leather couch anchored a conversation area in one corner, with other chairs and small tables scattered throughout the room. Heavy drapes of maroon velvet framed the window behind the desk, under which was a row of wooden filing cabinets. A fully-stocked bar waited against the wall to his left; it was very tall and narrow, with a mirrored back reflecting glasses hung from slots at the top. Sam detected the lingering odor of stale cigar smoke, though the numerous ashtrays were all spotlessly clean. _All it needs to complete the picture is a stock ticker under glass_, he thought.

"Are you certain you can meet the schedule?" Charles was saying into the phone. He listened to the response, a frown forming on his face. "Listen. I don't care what problems you've got; if you can't do the job I'll find someone else who can. Let me know by this afternoon." He hung up without any attempt at niceties to end the conversation.

"What do you want, Steven?" Charles asked. He was not angry, but clearly didn't appreciate the interruption. "I suppose you've come to get another look at the scene of the murder." He turned his head to the right, staring at a spot on the carpet beside the desk.

Sam couldn't help but walk closer to inspect it, though of course there was nothing there to indicate the violence that had taken place.

"I'd come in to talk to Father about a deal I was putting together, and found him there on the floor," Charles said. "I thought we might have to replace the carpet."

Sam thought that sounded pretty cold, but decided to ignore it. It might be easier for Charles to express regret over material things than to mourn his father. "What kind of a deal?" he asked instead.

Charles eyed him dubiously. "I didn't think you were interested in deals, unless you get something out of them."

"Well, you know, maybe it's time I started learning about what you do," Sam said. "You were talking to someone in California, but you never said what you were talking about."

Charles looked even more doubtful at that. "It was just an idea I'd had. Father didn't think it would work and I wanted to show him I knew what I was doing." He shook his head sadly, though Sam couldn't tell if it was because of Cyrus' death or because the deal hadn't worked after all.

"And you never got to prove it to him," Sam said. "I bet you have a lot of ideas that he wouldn't have approved of." Maybe he could play on the man's vanity and draw him out.

"Times have changed since he was a young man," Charles said rather pompously. "Running a business is a big responsibility. It takes guts to make the right decisions. You have to keep up with new technology, and take a few risks."

Sam began to understand some of what was eating at this man. He'd suddenly been left in sole charge of the family business, and the accountability frightened him. At the same time he was now free to do things his own way, except that that didn't seem to be working well for him. "Just how risky are you talking about?"

"There are ways to reduce risk," Charles said. "I don't take any unnecessary chances. You have to know the business from the ground up to know what will work and what won't." Again he eyed Sam curiously. "If you're really interested in learning, I'll put you to work in one of the Chicago warehouses. One of the foremen is retiring at the end of the month; I could give the job to you."

"Well, I don't know…," Sam said. "I had in mind more the office end of things. Schedules, and what sells, and where it goes; that kind of thing." He was concerned that working at a faceless warehouse wouldn't give him the opportunity to get the kind of information he needed, though he hoped he wouldn't be here long enough to worry about that.

Charles made a huffing noise, apparently an exasperated laugh. "I might have known you wouldn't be willing to soil your hands with manual labor," he said. "If that's all you wanted, I have work to do."

"Grandmother says she wants one of Grandfather's old ledgers," Sam said hastily. That would give him a chance to read through it first.

"Whatever for?" Charles asked, surprised.

"I'm afraid she wants to hold another séance," Sam replied. "She's got it in her mind that something to do with the business would be a better draw to Grandfather's spirit. She thinks the anniversary of his funeral might work." He added a lopsided grin to show what he thought of the idea.

Charles eyes darted to the row of filing cabinets. "There'll be no living with her if she doesn't get her way," he said with a sigh. "Tell her I'll bring it to the library when she's ready on Monday evening." It was clearly a dismissal.

Sam left the office, but was unsure what to do next. Again he wondered where Al was, and what information he might have when he did appear. He felt like he wasn't making any progress at all. He was pretty sure that Charles had been setting up a smuggling operation the night of the murder, but he wasn't going to admit to it. He needed to get a look at those ledgers, but that would have to wait until Charles was out of the office. It was beginning to look like that wouldn't happen until much later tonight.

Sam found himself at the front of the house, and decided to take a walk. He was feeling dispirited and thought a little fresh air and exercise might help. He grabbed a jacket from the closet near the door and walked outside. While the sun was shining brightly the air was still a little cool.

He struck out across the lawn with no particular destination in mind. A few minutes later he stopped and turned around to see what the house looked like. Al was right, it was huge, definitely in the mansion category. It was a brooding pile of dark gray stone blocks, three stories tall. Even its many windows seemed to have a sinister appearance, like glassy eyes watching his every move, their mullioned panes seeming to wink in the light.

He headed towards the woods, having remembered that he'd seen Adele out there earlier. He waved to Tony who was working on one of the flowerbeds, probably preparing it for planting when the weather warmed up a bit more. Sam tried to orient himself according to the view he'd had from the upstairs window, but the surrounding trees all looked alike. The woods were dense enough to block out most of the sunlight, making it dark and cold.

Sam continued to wander, hoping he could find his way out again. After a few minutes he came into a good-sized clearing and found Adele seated on an old wrought-iron bench.

"You scared them off," she said with a note of frustration in her voice. She turned to see who had invaded her privacy. "Oh, hello, Steven! There were two red foxes playing over there." She pointed to the tree line. "Come sit in the sun, it's cold in the woods."

Sam joined her on the bench, and saw her camera on her lap. "I'm sorry I've ruined your picture," he said.

Adele laughed lightly. "That's what I love about this place; something else will come along. I just had to get out of that house, with everyone talking about poor Cyrus' murder."

"I know what you mean!" Sam said with feeling. "You'd think they didn't have anything else to talk about."

"It's because of the trial, of course," she said. "The prosecutor made such a point of the fact that it had been nearly two years since the murder so that the jury would feel like they had to convict someone. And poor Matthew sat there with those big shoulders, he certainly looked like he had the strength to bash in someone's head."

"But that's just because of his legs," Sam said. 

"His attorney insisted he walk into the courtroom everyday on the crutches, although he could walk quite well with the cane," she said. "Matthew wasn't too keen on that, though he did understand it made him a more sympathetic figure. He really didn't like to be gawked at, it embarrassed him. They only convicted him because they couldn't see who else could have done it."

"Couldn't someone have come in without us knowing?" Sam asked. "Someone who'd been here before and knew the house, knew where to find him. Maybe a business partner who felt Grandfather had cheated him, or something like that?"

Adele turned to look at him with a delighted expression. "Do you think so?" she asked. "I certainly wouldn't put it past the old man! What do you think he did to make someone mad enough to kill him?"

Sam decided he was tired of pussy-footing around the subject and said straight out, "I think maybe he was working with a smuggler, and something went wrong."

Adele considered it for a minute. "That's possible, though I thought he'd given that up years ago."

"Then I'm right!" Sam exclaimed.

"Well, maybe," Adele allowed. "When we were first married your father told me about helping Cyrus bring in bootleg liquor from Canada. That was in the 20's, Charles was just a teenager. He thought it was all wonderfully exciting and romantic."

"I'll bet," Sam said, though he couldn't picture Charles as the type who appreciated excitement. "How'd they do it?"

"Boats would come into the bay in the dead of the night," she said. "They'd tie up at the dock and the men would move crates of booze onto the dock." She pointed to a spot left of center; Sam could only see trees, but assumed the dock lay in that direction.

"Then the boat would leave and they'd hide the stuff in the boathouse," she continued. "The rumor was that Cyrus was supplying Al Capone, but Charles was never sure about that. The old goat refused to talk about it, even years later. Afraid he'd get caught up in that mess and go to jail, I should think."

"That doesn't mean he'd stop doing it," Sam said.

"Well, he quit selling to the gangsters, whichever one it really was," she said. "Charles said they were attacked one night, one of the rival gangs trying to get rid of the competition. Charles had been in the boathouse when it started so he stayed out of sight and watched the whole thing. He said a group of men came running out of the woods, shooting Tommy guns at everyone and everything."

"He could've been hit!" Sam said, getting caught up in the tale.

"Apparently it takes some amount of skill to shoot one of those things," she said, probably repeating what Charles had told her. "They shoot a lot of bullets very fast, but they're hard to aim. He said they shot holes in the dock _and_ the boat, and shattered a lot of bottles but they didn't hit any people."

"Maybe they were only trying to scare them," Sam suggested. "Then they could promise protection for Cyrus if he'd sell to them instead."

"Well, Cyrus didn't scare easily," she said. "He pulled a gun out of his pocket and shot back at _them_. Killed a couple of them, too. Charles said they took the bodies out on the lake later that night and dumped them overboard." She grinned then. "People around here are superstitious. If you talk to some of the old men in town they'll tell you the ghosts of those dead gangsters still haunt the area. Sometimes it's supposed to be the shore their bodies washed up on, but usually it's the dock they visit." She waggled her eyebrows as if mocking the seriousness of the claim.

"So Cyrus, Grandfather, decided he'd had enough of the gangsters," Sam concluded. "That doesn't mean he gave up smuggling altogether. He could probably sell the liquor elsewhere, and there's lots of other goods that can be smuggled." At last maybe he was getting somewhere.

"Like I said, it's possible," Adele repeated. "Your father certainly wouldn't tell me about it if it were true. I learned very quickly not to ask questions about the business and that seems to work well for the both of us. He makes the money and I live my life the way I want to. You know," her face grew thoughtful. "Just because Capone is dead, it doesn't mean there aren't still men like him."

"The kind of men who'd kill over a deal gone sour?" asked Sam.

"You make it sound corny, but people will kill for the oddest reasons. If someone _had_ been angry with Cyrus they could've gotten in without anyone knowing, it's a big house and we were all busy. It's not like you can hear what goes on behind closed doors in that house, no one would've heard if there was an argument. I suppose that's why they hit him over the head though, because we might've heard a gunshot."

"Dad wouldn't have told the police about the smuggling, either," Sam mused. "Even to save his own son-in-law?"

"Oh, Steven, you _know_ your father never liked Matthew," Adele said. "He subscribed to Cyrus' view that Matthew was pathetic. He's really quite put out that Dottie won't divorce him and find a more suitable husband."

"One that can help run the family business?" Sam suggested wryly.

"Exactly!" she agreed. "Dottie's so sure Matthew is innocent, but there's no way to prove it."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Sam stood on the end of the dock looking out at the lake. The word 'lake' didn't do it justice. Though he could see the edges of the bay curving off left and right, when he looked to the northwest it seemed he was looking at an ocean rather than a lake. Gray water stretched as far as the eye could see, over the curve of the horizon. Now he knew why they were called the Great Lakes; they might look big on a map, but there was no real way to appreciate their true size until you saw one of them for yourself.

As he stood there taking in the magnificent view he heard the door to the Imaging Chamber open and knew Al had finally decided to show up. Five minutes ago he would have snapped out a surly greeting, but the breathtaking scenery had calmed his mind.

Al walked up and joined him in taking in the view. Today he was wearing black slacks and shirt, with a long antique gold coat over them. A pin made from three gold coins took the place of a tie, and a black-and-white herringbone scarf with gold fringe was tucked inside the coat. Al stood there looking at the lake with his hands in his coat pockets. After a couple of minutes he began singing:

_With a load of iron ore - 26,000 tons more  
Than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty  
That good ship and true was a bone to be chewed  
When the gales of November came early._

Sam turned to look at him. For once his Swiss cheese memory recalled both song and event. "This is where it sank?" he asked quietly.

Al nodded to the north and said, "About 20 miles out there. Of course it hasn't even been built yet in this time. It won't be launched until 1958, and it sinks with all hands during a storm in 1975."

"Did they ever figure out what happened?" Sam asked.

"The ship's lying on the bottom, broken in two," Al replied. "But nobody's really sure what sank her. There's 29 bodies down there. This lake is so cold that bacteria can't grow and produce gas to make the bodies float, so they never surface. Lake Superior doesn't give up her dead."

Sam gave him a slightly skeptical look. "Is this leading up to another ghost story?" he asked.

Al looked wounded. "No, Sam. The wreck is considered a gravesite, that's all."

"You were talking about shipwrecked sailors haunting the area last night," Sam said.

Al looked the least bit uncomfortable. "Well, yeah," he said. "There's a lot of rumors about that around here."

"Like rumors of gangsters shooting it out right here on this very dock," Sam said in a sinister tone. "The dead ones still haunt it, looking for revenge."

Al glanced up at the sky as if to reassure himself that the sun was still shining, precluding the possibility of a ghost showing up at that very moment.

Sam pointed down at the weathered wooden planks of the dock. "See, there's a bullet hole right there."

Al bent down to examine it more closely. "That's just a knothole, Sam." He stood up, glanced around just to be sure there were no apparitions, then frowned. "Are you trying to scare me, Sam? What kind of gangsters are we talking about, anyway?"

Sam grinned. "Sorry, I couldn't resist. Bootleggers from the 1920's, maybe even Al Capone's men. Another gang attacked them while they were unloading the booze and Cyrus shot a couple of them. Charles saw the whole thing."

"Smugglers?" Al asked brightly. "Charles admitted he's been smuggling?"

"Well…no," Sam said. "I couldn't get him to talk about it. In fact, no one here seems to want to talk about _anything_ except Cyrus' murder two years ago. Everyone seems to think Matthew is innocent." He paused for a moment, thinking about it. "I can't decide if it's because they all know about the smuggling but just don't talk about it, or if Charles is keeping it under his hat, or if there _is_ no smuggling going on now but he's thinking about starting again."

"So how did you find out about Capone's Chicago Outfit?" Al asked.

"Adele told me that story," Sam explained. "It happened when Charles was a teenager, apparently he told her about it. She said he thought it was exciting. The attack made Cyrus decide to give up bootlegging, but she doesn't have any idea if he's still smuggling other things."

"Did you ask her?" Al inquired.

"Yes, I asked her!" Sam responded. "Theirs seems to be a marriage of convenience; she doesn't ask questions about where the money comes from, and I don't think she talks to Charles much about anything else."

"Well, it's the 1950's, women weren't encouraged to think about business," Al said. "Did you ask Charles about it?"

"Yeah, but he wouldn't say either," Sam said. "That was before I talked to Adele; maybe I should go back and ask him about Capone."

"What exactly did Adele tell you?" Al asked.

"That boats would tie up here and they'd offload the liquor, then they'd store it in the boathouse." Sam pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. "She didn't say, but I'd guess that some other boat came back to pick it up later."

Al turned to look at the boathouse. It looked like a garage built partially into the side of a low hill, with the front portion supported on pilings so that it appeared to hang over the water. It was constructed of wood and painted white, apparently fairly recently as the paint wasn't peeling. There was a short railing around the top so it could double as a sun deck. There were two segmented wooden doors on the front that could be rolled up to let the boats in and out, and the dock was connected to one end of the boathouse. A large yacht was tied up at the dock, under an awning for some protection from the elements.

"Have you looked in there yet, Sam? Maybe there's something stashed in it right now."

"Hey, that's a good idea!" Sam said. They both began walking along the dock, Sam's footsteps echoing hollowly on the planks. He noticed that Al still had his hands in his pockets. "You're not cold, are you?" he asked.

"Uh, no," Al said.

"I mean it's warm in the Imaging Chamber, right?" A memory surfaced: Al wearing a thick fur coat and hat because Ziggy had shut off all 'non-essential power usage'. "Ziggy didn't turn the heat off again, did she?"

"Nah, nothin' like that," Al said, not looking at Sam.

"Al, is everything okay back at the project?"

"Everything's fine, Sam," Al replied with false cheer.

"Is there something you're not telling me? Is that why you haven't shown up all morning?"

Al stopped and looked down at the dock. "We had a little problem this morning," he said. Then with more sincerity, "But everything's okay now."

"Al, the last time you had a 'little problem' back at the project the guy in the Waiting Room had a _gun_ and escaped. Steven didn't escape, did he?"

"Oh, no, nothing like that," Al said. "I told you, it's all taken care of now."

"So why won't you take your hands out of your pockets?" Sam asked.

Al did so, waving them both in front of Sam's face. "See? No problem."

From the look on Sam's face he wasn't convinced. "I only counted three fingers and a thumb on your right hand; did you hurt your index finger?"

"I'm fine," Al said brusquely. "There's a people-sized door at the end of the dock, let's go see what's in the boathouse."

Sam leaned forward to see the finger that Al seemed to be hiding. The tip was covered with a large white bandage. "What'd you stick your finger into this time, Al? What was this 'little problem' you had to take care of?"

Al looked a little embarrassed. "It was Tina's crocodile that escaped," he finally admitted. "We don't know how he got out of his cage, but it took us all morning to find him. He, uh, bit my finger when I tried to grab him."

Sam laughed, but whether it was from mirth or anxiety over his friend's near disaster was hard to say. He eyed the bandage critically. "Are you okay? How badly did he bite you?" There was real concern in his voice.

"Oh, yeah, I'm fine," Al reiterated. "His tooth just sort of nicked me, it's not like he took the finger off." He grinned meaningfully. "Tina owes me one now. So I might be a little late _tomorrow_ morning, too!"

This time Sam laughed heartily. "Well, I'm glad you're not seriously hurt, Al." They stopped to admire the yacht. Its wooden hull was painted a crisp white, and they could see teak decking and lots of polished brass fittings. The brand, 'Chris Craft', was on the bow. The walls of the flying bridge ended in a jaunty sweptback angle, and the last window in line was curved like the backseat window on a 30's coupe. _Which was probably the vintage of the boat,_ Sam thought.

"That must be 45 feet!" Sam said appreciatively. "Do you think Charles uses it to bring in contraband?"

"He could," Al allowed, "if he's doing the dirty work himself."

"Do you think we should look onboard?" Sam asked.

"I doubt there's anything there," Al said. "It's been put up for the winter, and it would be pretty stupid to leave contraband onboard all that time."

"Maybe that's how he got caught," Sam suggested.

"It's more likely the goods are hidden somewhere in there," Al said, waving his hand to indicate the boathouse. He seemed to notice his bandaged finger and realize he no longer had to hide it from Sam. He pulled a cigar from his pocket and began the process of lighting it.

Sam turned the knob on the smaller door, but it was locked. He looked questioningly at Al.

"Don't look at me!" Al exclaimed. "Even if I 'make like a ghost' it's dark in there, I can't see anything." The mere mention of ghosts was making him a bit uneasy again. "A rich kid like Steven probably has a fancy speedboat in there, maybe there's a key on his key ring."

Sam dug in his pocket and produced a set of keys. One of them opened the lock and they both walked into the gloom of the boathouse. They could hear the sound of water lapping against the slip. Suddenly a groan echoed through the murky building.

"What was that?" Al asked nervously.

Sam found a switch and turned on the overhead lights. The edge of the lake had been dug out to accommodate the draft of the boats and faced with concrete; the back portion of the room was floored with a concrete slab. The dock narrowed but continued along one edge of the building, and another skinny dock ran between two boats. They heard the groan again, but this time they could tell that it came from a sailboat rocking slightly on the water and rubbing against the floats on the wooden dock. Al relaxed; he should've known what that sound was.

"Now _that_ is a rich man's toy if I ever saw one." Al pointed to a slim boat with sleek lines. This boat was made of highly varnished wood; they could see the individual strips. The wood of the turtle deck was a lighter color, contrasting nicely with the darker hull. It had two cockpits, with bench seats upholstered in green leather, and the front cockpit had a short windscreen to protect the driver from spray. It looked fast just sitting still in the water. "That's a Gar Wood, a playboy's runabout."

Sam smiled at the yearning look on Al's face. "It may be fast, but there's no room for cargo in it," he said. "I'll look around in here and see if I can find any kind of hidey-hole."

"You do that. I think I'll go look around the yacht," Al said. "It sure would be nice to sail around the lake in style like that." He pulled the handlink from his pocket, punched a couple of buttons, and disappeared.

Sam began moving around the boathouse, looking for something to indicate a hiding place. "There sure is a lot of junk in here," he muttered. The sailboat's mast was resting on hooks in the wall, the boathouse not being tall enough for its height. The walls were hung with all sorts of boating and fishing paraphernalia; nets, oars, fishing rods, and even a couple of old canvas-covered cork life preservers. A small rowboat stood on its stern against a wall.

Sam could see several big wooden crates on the floor. But when he investigated them he found they were full of engine parts and fittings, plus seat cushions, tarps, tangles of rope, and what looked to be various items removed from the yacht when it was stored; blankets, flashlights, even a pair of sunglasses someone had left behind. Folding deck chairs leaned against some of the crates.

A workbench stretched along the back wall, with tools neatly hung on pegboard behind it. The surface was oil-soaked from years of engine work, but no repairs were in progress at the moment. In fact, the whole place had the air of not having been disturbed for months. There were several jerry cans, probably military surplus, on the floor next to one end of the bench; he nudged one with his foot, but they too had been emptied for the winter. He didn't see any place that might possibly conceal a hidden area.

Sam went back outside, locking the door behind him. He looked up to see Al striding around the deck of the yacht, left hand behind his back, and puffing on his cigar; the epitome of the seasoned sailor. "Ahoy there, Cap'n," he called. "Find anything of interest?"

Al pulled the handlink from his coat pocket and punched a button, causing him to appear to float down from the deck to the dock beside Sam. "No, but I'd sure like to party on that boat. There's room for lots of bathing beauties, and cabins below deck." He grinned suggestively.

"I didn't find anything, either," Sam reported. He looked thoughtful for a moment and then said, "The boats were obviously put up for the winter. Now that it's spring, maybe Charles is about to start up the operation again. Except this place looks like it's been locked up for awhile, that yacht doesn't look ready to sail tonight."

"No, it'd take a couple of days to get her ready," Al agreed. "But that doesn't mean he's not putting together some scheme for the near future."

"Well, I guess that's all we can do here," Sam said. I'm gonna go back to the house; maybe I'll have a chance to search for the second set of books if Charles is out of the office."

"Okay, Sam. I'll meet you there."

Sam didn't see anyone around when he got back to the house. The door to Charles' office was closed, and though he listened for a minute he couldn't tell if Charles was still in there. Talking to him again at this point would be awkward, and since Al hadn't caught up to him yet he opted to go to his room.

On his way up the stairs Sam thought this might be a good time to take a better look at Charles' room, but when he got to the landing he saw the door was open and heard someone moving around inside. Out of curiosity he walked up the second flight to see what was on the third floor.

It looked pretty much like the second, a long hallway with many closed doors. Most of the rooms contained dust-shrouded furniture, but apparently both Tony and Susan lived here. Tony's room was strewn with clothes, magazines, and over-full ashtrays. A half-full bottle of Bourbon sat on the nightstand; Sam noted it was a brand-name, and a cheap one at that. He supposed that made sense if Cyrus had really given up bootlegging, though there were plenty of other goods to be smuggled.

Susan's room was neat as a pin, though she didn't seem to have many personal belongings. Her nightstand held a photo in a heavy silver frame; a family group, father, mother, daughter and two sons in the stiff formal clothing of the early 20th century.

"She emigrated from Germany with her family in 1914," Al said. "They came over at the start of World War I."

"To get away from the war?" Sam asked.

"Well, yeah, that and to make a better life here," Al replied. "She took the first job she was offered, as a maid here. She was 16 years old, and she's been here ever since."

"Doesn't sound like a better life to me," Sam commented. "They treat her like a slave."

"They treat her like a valued _servant_, which is she is," Al corrected. "It may be an old-fashioned concept to _us_, but they take care of her, Sam. They take her with them to Chicago, and let her live there the rest of her life."

Sam was about to continue the dispute when they both heard a distinct squeak coming from somewhere outside the room.

Al started nervously. Sam rolled his eyes and shook his head. "It's not a ghost," he said. "Someone's coming up the stairs. I need to get out of here."

Sam dashed out of the room, closing the door behind him. It made a noticeable click as the latch engaged. Al repositioned himself to look over the banister. "It's Susan," he said tersely. "She heard that door shut, too. You better think of something, Sam."

Sam slipped along the hall to the next door, which he knew opened on an unoccupied room. He stood in front of it with his hand on the knob and his back to the stairs, looking nonchalantly out the window at the other end of the hall as if he'd just left that room and was thinking where to go next.

"Vhat are you doingk up here, Steven?" Susan asked in surprise.

He turned around as if surprised by her appearance. "I was just kind of reminiscing," he replied. He gave her a winning smile. "You know, thinking about when I was a little boy."

Susan smiled, too. "You vere alvays exploringk all over the house," she said fondly.

"Good save, Sam!" Al said. "Let's hope she's not as sharp as Miss Marple, and doesn't figure out that little diversion of yours.

At the end of the hall a door suddenly swung open with a loud squeal; it stopped, partially open, as if inviting one to enter the room.

Al jumped, turned toward the noise and saw the cause. He sighed in relief and said, "You didn't shut it good."

"Yes, I did!" Sam said, in answer to both remarks. "Well, it was fun but I think I'll just go to my room now," he told Susan.

"I vill be down to start lunch in just a few minutes," she called as he started down the stairs.

"Okay," Sam said, waving his hand vaguely in her direction.

Al was already in the room when Sam opened the door. "You didn't think you'd find contraband in the house, did you Sam?" Al asked.

Sam threw himself down in an over-stuffed chair. "No, I really was just doing a little exploring," he said. He stood back up and began pacing the room. "I wanted to take a look at Charles' room, but someone was in it. Guess it was Susan, cleaning."

"So what's the plan now?" Al asked.

"After Susan goes down to the kitchen I'll take a peek in there," Sam told him. "Maybe after lunch Charles will go take a nap or something and I can search the office." His pacing had taken him to the window, so he paused to look out. Tony was still working on the landscaping, though he'd moved to an area closer to the house by now.

"I wonder if Tony's dad told _him_ stories about working for Al Capone," he mused.

"What're you gonna do, buy him a drink to get him talking?" Al asked, a little sarcastically.

"If that's what it takes," Sam answered. "Though if he likes his job he might not want to tell me anything; not if he thinks I want to know something I'm not supposed to."

Another soft creak issued from beyond the door. Al's head whipped around to glare at the door, then he grinned self-consciously. "There goes Susan," he said. "Now's our chance. I'll just go check to make sure Charles' room is empty."

Al disappeared through the wall, and a moment later his head re-appeared. "The coast is clear," he announced.

Sam of course had to go out the door and down the hall to get to Charles' room. "I wish I'd looked around more this morning," he said when he got there.

The room was essentially a twin of Sam's, though the wallpaper here was a muted red and green plaid. "I'm feeling a little nervous, here," he said. "Keep an eye out for anyone coming upstairs, would you, Al?"

"Sure thing," Al replied. "This whole house makes me nervous," he muttered as he disappeared through the wall.

Sam looked in all the drawers and cabinets in the room, but found only the items one would expect to find in them. He checked for loose floorboards, especially under edges of the area rugs, but found none. Then he knocked softly on the walls of the closet, listening carefully for a hollow sound. No such luck.

Al popped back into the room. "Sam?" he called nervously. "Is that you knocking?"

Sam stepped out of the closet. "Yeah," he said. "I was looking for a secret cache, not table-knocking to call spirits. I didn't find anything here, either. I'll have to find a way to search the office later. What's wrong with you, Al? I've never seen you so edgy."

"I'm tellin' you, Sam, this house is _haunted_!" Al replied.

Sam shook his head in exasperation. "I'm sorry I've been teasing you, Al," he said sincerely. "Look. It's an old house; it's got squeaky stairs and doors that don't latch well, and, and, and…an old lady who wants to talk to her dead husband. It's a little strange, I'll grant you – but it's _not_ haunted!"

Al opened his mouth to reply, clearly ready to argue the point. He shut it when he heard Susan's voice call out, "Steven? You haf a telephone call."

Sam looked wildly around the room, but saw no phone. "Okay!" he called back. Then to Al, "Where's the phone? Charles was supposed to be on the phone in here the night Cyrus was killed."

Al consulted the handlink. "I guess he had it taken out once he had the office to himself. There's a phone downstairs, Sam."

Sam trotted down the stairs and picked up the receiver which Susan had laid on the table beside the phone. "Hello?"

"Hey, this is Mike," the caller identified himself. "Heard you were in town, thought you might like to come have a beer."

Sam was plainly uncertain; drinking away the afternoon wasn't his idea of a good time. "At the Moosehead?" he asked hesitantly.

"Unless you know of another bar in town!" Mike replied.

"Go ahead, Sam," Al urged. "Maybe someone there knows something about the smuggling. Charles would hire someone to offload the goods, chances are it's the locals."

Sam nodded to Al. "Yeah, sounds good," he told Mike. "Meet you there." He hung up the phone and said, "I sure hope this is worth it."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Sam stood on the sweeping curve of the graveled driveway looking at Steven's car. It was a two-seater sports car with a long hood and gracefully swept-back fenders. Naturally it was a flashy bright red, and he could see that the seats were upholstered in a biscuit color, probably leather from the expensive looks of the vehicle. It had a padded canvas top, which he assumed would fold down to make into a convertible.

Al showed up, took one look, and whistled appreciatively. "Sam! That's a Jaguar XK120. What a beautiful car! The '120' in the name comes from its top speed, 120 MPH. This model is what they call a Drophead Coupé; it's got a dual overhead-cam 3.4 liter straight-6 XK engine with twin side draft SU carburetors," he waxed poetic over the machine.

"Al," Sam said warily, "it's also got the steering-wheel on the wrong side."

Al took a closer look. "No, it's on the right side," he joked.

Sam merely glared at him.

"It's a British car," Al told him. "Charles probably imported it for Steven." He walked around to the right side of the car to look at it from that side. "It's got a flat tire," he said. 

Sam walked around to look; not that he thought Al was joking again, but bad news often has to be seen to be believed. Sure enough, the right front tire was flat. "Damn it, "he said. "Now I'll be late to meet this Mike guy."

Al waved his cigar in the air to emphasize the unimportance of this event. "Look at it this way, Sam," he said. "By the time you get there Mike'll have already had a couple of beers and be more likely to talk. Open the boot and get the spare tire out."

"The boot?" Sam asked.

"If you're gonna drive a British sports car, ya gotta get the terminology right," Al said pedantically. He pointed to the trunk. "That's the boot, the top is called the hood, and what us Yanks call the hood is the bonnet. Get the tire changed, Sam, and then you can get on the road."

Sam unlocked the boot and located the spare and jack under a piece of vinyl-covered plywood. A pouch tucked into the wheel well turned out to be a toolkit so he pulled it out too. He wrestled the jack into position and raised the car enough to get the wire wheel off the ground. Then he stopped and stared at the hub.

Al had been busy scrutinizing the car from all angles, practically drooling; now he noticed that Sam had stopped work. "Whassa matter, Sam? Has your Swiss-cheesed brain suddenly forgotten how to change a tire?" His tone was curious, not unkind.

"No, it's not that," Sam said. "I've just never seen one like that, there's no lug nuts, how do I get the hub off?"

From across the driveway Tony yelled, "You need some help?"

Sam looked up to see Tony striding toward him, having left his cart of gardening supplies at the edge of the drive. "Uh, yeah, thanks Tony, that would be nice."

Tony surveyed the situation. "Flat tire, eh? No problem, I'll get you all fixed up." He squatted down to check the placement of the jack. "You got that under there good and solid." He seemed surprised. "Hand me the hammer."

"The _hammer_?" Sam asked.

"The knockoff mallet," Al clarified, though Sam didn't look like that made any more sense to him. "It's a little hammer," he explained. "The head's made of lead so it doesn't scratch the chrome on the hub. It's in the pouch there."

Sam bent down to look in the pouch and found the object in question. It had a short wooden handle and cylindrical head; several deep gouges in the soft lead distorted the shape. "Oh, yeah, right. The knockoff mallet," he said, handing it to Tony.

Sam thought he saw Tony roll his eyes, but if so he hid it well. Tony grabbed the end of the handle and began banging on the hub. Sam looked closer and saw that the hub had two small ears which provided leverage; those were what Tony was actually whacking, turning the hub to the left. At least now the tool's name made sense to him. Three or four good hits were sufficient to loosen the hub, which Tony then spun off by hand.

"Hey, now that you've got him here, why don't you ask what he knows about the bootlegging?" Al suggested.

"Yeah. You know, Mom told me a great story this morning," Sam began. "About, uh, my grandfather running bootleg whiskey in the 20's."

Tony pulled the wheel off and inspected it. "Yep. There's a nail, right there." He let the wheel fall over on the ground. "Hand me the spare. Pop told me about that, too."

Sam rolled the spare towards Tony. "Yeah? What'd he tell you about it?" He thought maybe that sounded a little too eager and added, "Was he really working for Al Capone?"

Tony put the spare on, gave the hub a spin, and picked up the mallet. He glanced sideways at Sam as if to judge how much he actually knew, or maybe just to see how gullible he was. "Pop never said. You're talking about the shootout, right?" At Sam's nod he continued. "I suppose she told you the old man was the one what shot those men." His tone was bitter. He channeled his anger into beating the hub, leaving new gouges in the head of the mallet.

"It doesn't take a genius to figure out who really had the gun that night," Al remarked.

"It was your father," Sam said. It was not a question.

"Damn right it was Pop," Tony said. "Your grandfather didn't have the foresight to bring a gun, Kid. He didn't think anyone knew about that little operation, didn't think it was dangerous." He paused, evidently realizing he'd said too much. "Though I'm sure he'd have had the guts to pull the trigger if he'd had a gun," he added.

"I don't know," Sam told him. "He didn't seem to have the guts to keep the operation going after that." He hoped that statement would encourage Tony to say more.

"Yep, he was smart enough to get outta that racket," Tony agreed. "I'll take this wheel into the service station in town after lunch." He began pumping the jack handle to lower the car.

"I'll take it," Sam said. "I'm going into town anyway. Thanks for the help, Tony."

Tony was clearly surprised at that, but nodded his acceptance. He stowed the wheel and tools, and left. Sam could see him shaking his head as he walked away; he got the feeling that his own unfamiliarity with foreign cars hadn't improved Tony's opinion of Steven. He opened the door and sat down in the right-hand seat, then rolled down the window and looked out at Al.

"It's a stick-shift," he said.

"So, it's a stick-shift," Al responded. "You know how to shift gears, Sam."

"But I've never done it with my left hand!" Sam said, with just a touch of panic in his voice. "Do I clutch with my right foot?"

Al gave him a look that said he was being dense on purpose. "No, Sam, the clutch is on the left, just like an American car. Why don't you practice shifting a little to get the hang of it."

Sam did so, noting that it felt weird to pull the shifter towards himself when putting it into third. After a couple of times through the pattern he felt comfortable enough to start the car and try it for real. He turned the key, but nothing happened.

Al stuck his hand into the cockpit to point at a push-button on the burled walnut dash. The smoke from his cigar floated through the window, and Sam was glad he didn't have to smell it in the close confines of the little car. He pushed the button and the car roared to life, settling down to a quiet rumble.

"Thanks, Al," Sam said. "Is there anything else I need to know about this car?"

"Nah, you'll do fine. I think I'd better go back and make sure Tina's pet is still under lock and key. See ya later, Sam."

Sam took off slowly and was grateful he had a couple of miles of deserted country roads which would give him the opportunity to get used to driving the car. He found it was easy to keep it in the middle of the lane; a passenger in the right-hand seat knows what the road looks like from that perspective. He dropped the flat off at the service station (there was only one in town) and pulled up outside the Moosehead, easily identifiable by the painted sign out front.

He walked through the front door and looked around. It didn't look like a very exciting place. The walls were rough wooden planks, now a dark brown from exposure to both air and cigarette smoke. They were lined with crude booths, bare of cushions, with plywood tables stained by many a spilled beer. The bar itself was a little more refined, yet bore scars from years of use. Sam hoped they weren't from bar fights. Cheap tables and chairs filled up the remaining space.

Surprisingly the place had quite a few customers and Sam wondered which one was Mike. The barmaid delivered beers to one of the tables, then tucked her tray under her arm and came toward him. She was a young woman who had trashy good looks; long, obviously-bleached, blonde hair and a lot of make-up, black pencil-legged slacks, and a tight low-cut sweater that showed off her ample décolletage.

She took Sam's arm in a more-than-friendly manner, a big smile on her face. "Hi there, Steve! Heard you were in town, how've you been?"

"Uh, hi," Sam said, trying to disentangle his arm without being too obvious about it. "I just dropped by to see Mike."

Her face dissolved into a pout and she took a tighter grip on his arm. "I thought maybe you'd come to take me away from all this."

Across the room the bartender yelled, "Sally! Sally DuBois!" When he had her reluctant attention he pointed to several foam-topped mugs waiting for her on the bar.

"Be right there," she yelled back. Then with a sigh she tugged at Sam's arm, pulling him further into the tavern. "Mike's over there at the back table. I'll bring you a beer in just a sec." She let go his arm and gave him a pat on the butt as he walked away.

Sam heard raucous laughter from one of the booths; when he glanced that direction the occupants hastily looked the other way. He wondered if Sally was that 'friendly' with all the customers, or if she just played up to Steven because he was rich. At the back table a beefy young blond giant was waving him over.

"Hi, Mike," he said, sitting down at the table. "Sorry I'm late. I had a flat. How've you been?"

"Better late than never," Mike said. He drained the remainder of his beer in one gulp and set the heavy glass mug on the table with a thump. "Wasn't sure you'd come, I didn't wait on you."

Sally showed up with fresh beers, bending over in an obvious fashion as she set them on the table. "I'll just put these on your tab," she said, winking at Sam.

"Thanks, Steve!" Mike said, hoisting his full mug in salute. "Sally misses you, can't you tell?"

Sam took a small sip of his beer; he intended to nurse it so he could keep his wits about him. "Yeah, I got that," he said.

"She's hoping your old man will need a 'hostess' on the yacht again this summer," Mike confided. "You think he'll have some more of those 'business' trips?"

Sam perked up. This might be easier than he'd thought. "Business trips?" he asked.

"Aw, you know what I'm talking about," Mike said. "The ones where he takes his high-roller buddies out on the lake for the day. Sally keeps 'em likkered up and I make sure we sail by all the scenic spots. Then at sunset we serve 'em steaks – or fresh fish, if the fishermen have been lucky."

"Oh, yeah, _that_ kind of business," Sam said, disappointed.

"Hey, I know you're not interested in that kind of thing," Mike said. "Because they really _do_ talk business. It's not as boring as you'd think; you'd be surprised at some of the deals they come up with on those trips."

"Like what?" Sam asked. This might be the kind of thing he was looking for after all.

"Oh, all sorts of ways for them to make money," Mike replied. "There's always some European guy, from France or Italy or somethin'. He makes things and wants to sell 'em here. Some other guy owns a big store somewhere and wants to sell the stuff in it. Then there's your old man, he's the one what's got the boats to get the goods from there to here. Everybody scratches everybody else's back, and they all get richer."

"Do they ever sail to Canada?" Sam asked.

"Canadian waters, sure," Mike replied. "Why?"

Now that he knew that Steven wasn't a part of this, Sam felt better about asking questions. "Oh, just curious," he said. "I thought maybe they'd bring something back, if you know what I mean."

Mike nearly choked on his beer at that. "_Smuggling_?" he asked.

"It'd be easy enough to do," Sam explained.

Mike looked around the bar a little uneasily. "This ain't the twenties, Steve," he said. "And we ain't got no gangsters here. We'd like to keep it that way." There was something about his tone that said he knew far more than he was saying.

"No, of course not," Sam said. "My grandfather ran 'em out of here, guess we learned that lesson."

Sally drifted by the table and laid her arm across Sam's shoulders. "Ready for another?" she asked cheerfully. "Steve, you've hardly touched yours. Is there something wrong with it?"

"No, it's fine," Sam said, taking a drink to demonstrate.

"I'm always ready for another beer!" Mike said.

"Coming right up," Sally said as she walked away.

An older man in the booth next to their table leaned toward them. "Mr. Carmichael don't like the beer here 'cause it ain't one a them fancy big-city brews. It's smuggled in across the border – cheaper that way!" He cackled at his own joke.

A man at the next table continued the prank. "Hell, I smuggled me in some deer meat this winter." Everyone laughed uproariously.

Sally returned with Mike's beer. She bent to whisper in Sam's ear. "You could smuggle me out of here and we could go somewhere a little cozier."

Sam laughed along with them, but felt he'd hit a nerve.

"You just here for the weekend?" Sally asked.

"Just the weekend," Sam told her, remembering that's what Adele had said.

A thought seemed to strike Sally. "This is when your grandpapá was killed, you came home to be with family. I'm sorry it's such a sad trip." For once she seemed to genuinely care, and didn't try to flirt.

"Yeah, well, you know how it is," Sam said. He laughed a bit self-consciously. "My grandmother held a séance last night; apparently she's not satisfied the police got the right man."

"We know it wasn't you," said the fellow at the next table. "You were here all night!"

"Tony was here too," another man chimed in. "He was with Karen Nillson that night. They left early, guess they wanted to do their drinkin' out at the lake where it was more private-like." His smirk made it clear what he thought they were really up to.

"Karen?" Sam asked.

"That was back when they were engaged," a woman reminded him. "Though I think she was right to break it off after the way he treated her."

"Me, too," Sally put in. "I wouldn't want a man who'd cheat on me."

"Do _you_ think your brother-in-law killed him?" Mike asked.

"Don't see how anybody else could have," someone else remarked.

"Maybe it was smugglers!" another man chimed in.

"Or the ghost," the woman added in a fake scary voice.

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," Sally told her. "The ghost is his _mother_. Why would she want to kill him?"

At this point there were so many people talking at once that Sam couldn't keep track of who was saying what. Everyone seemed to be describing what they'd been doing that night, or declaring their own pet theory of how the murder had taken place. "Colonel Mustard in the Office with the Lead Pipe" sort of thing. He realized he'd done it again; no one wanted to talk about smuggling, but _everyone_ wanted to talk about the murder.

He took a final drink of his beer, stood up, and handed a $20 bill to Sally. She made a show of tucking it into her cleavage and accompanied him to the door, waving wistfully as he drove away.

Sam pulled into the mansion's driveway and shut off the car. Once he'd gotten used to driving from the wrong side he'd enjoyed the chance to drive a high-performance car. Jeanne had put out a croquet set and was industriously whacking the ball across the lawn. She waved as he got out of the car.

"Hi, Uncle Steven. Wanna play croquet with me?"

"Sure," he said. He walked across the lawn and picked up a mallet. The course didn't seem to be set up correctly, but then he wasn't sure as he could remember the rules. He decided it didn't matter as the point was to have fun. He tapped the ball, which promptly curved off to the right, away from the wicket.

"You have to hit it harder," Jeanne declared. "Like this!" She hit the ball as hard as she could and laughed as it flew across the grass. She ran after it and hit it back again, following it as fast as her little legs could carry her. She skidded to a stop in front of Sam, fell to her knees, and rolled over on her back, laughing with the pleasure of the movement.

Sam grabbed her upraised hands and pulled her to her feet. "I distinctly remember your mother telling you to be careful of your dress," he gently chided her. The sash had come untied and was hanging loose, the collar was askew, and the hem was sagging over one knee.

Jeanne looked down at herself, and brushed ineffectually at the grass and leaves clinging to the skirt. "I don't care," she said. "Susan will fix it for me."

Sam gestured for her to turn around so he could re-tie the sash. "You like playing outdoors, don't you?" he asked.

"Yes," she said simply. "I like to play ball games on the lawn, I like to run through the trees, and I especially like playing down by the lake." Her face grew thoughtful. "Grandma Rose says next year I should go to a private school in Chicago, but I don't wanna. I like it _here_."

"What does your mother say?" he asked.

"I don't think she wants to live in Chicago either," Jeanne said. "She said people there won't be her friends, because of Daddy."

_She was probably right, _Sam thought. _The social circles of polite society that this family belonged to would doubtless ostracize Dottie for the sin of having a husband in prison._ "It's a long time 'til the next school year starts," he told her. "You and your mother can talk to Grandma Rose and get her to change her mind."

"I wish Daddy was here. I miss him," Jeanne said.

"I know you do, Jeanne," he said, putting his arm around her shoulders. He didn't know what else to do.

"I don't care _what_ that judge said, Daddy didn't hurt Grandpa Cyrus!" she cried forlornly. "Mr. Schmidt needs to find out who really hurt him, then Daddy could come home again."

"Mr. Schmidt is the policeman who investigated," Sam surmised.

"Of _course_, silly," Jeanne said. She cocked her head to look at him, a quizzical look on her face. "You could do it, Uncle Steven."

"Find out who hurt your great-grandfather?" Sam asked. _Would this murder business never end?_ he thought. "But I don't know, Honey. I wasn't even at the house that night, remember?"

"That makes you the perfect one to find out," Jeanne proclaimed. "You weren't here so you couldn't have done it – I _know_ you didn't anyway! If you could just show Mr. Schmidt that my Daddy was really writing his book like he said, that would be enough."

Sam looked down at the little girl. She was so young and trusting, she couldn't believe her father would hurt anyone. Her love for her father made her think he must be innocent of the murder. That belief, carried forward over the years, could well be part of the reason she would run away to seek what she thought was a better life. He considered the situation for a moment. Everyone here seemed to think Matthew was blameless, would it hurt for him to look into the matter?

"I promise I'll do what I can," he told her.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Sam was trying to open the locked file drawers with a bent paper-clip, which wasn't working well at all.

"Why don't you just use the key?"

Sam started, looked up to see Al standing in the middle of the office. "Geez, Al, you scared me! I didn't hear you come in. And I can't _find_ the key, Charles must keep it in his pocket or something."

"I'm not surprised; this place is enough to give anybody the heebie-jeebies," Al said. "I thought maybe you'd be in your room after dinner, so I had Ziggy center me there. You're never gonna get that open like that, Sam. Here, let me try something."

Al pulled the handlink from his pocket and poised his finger over the buttons. "Ziggy, run a spatial comparison on that desk," he requested. "Let's just see if there's any hidden compartments."

Sam straightened up from his task and turned back to the desk. "If so, it'll be the first thing that's gone right on this Leap," he muttered.

Al studied the readout for a moment, then pointed to the top right-hand drawer. "She says there's a false back, see if you can figure out how to get it open."

Sam opened the drawer in question and fumbled around for a couple of minutes, finally finding the hidden release. The key to the file cabinets was indeed there. He unlocked the first one and began rifling through the folders. "What do we know about Cyrus' murder?" he asked as he read labels.

"You're not here to solve the murder, Sam," Al said. "You're here to get Charles to stop the smuggling. What did you find out at the bar, anything?"

Sam paused in his efforts to look at Al. "No one's admitting to anything," he said. "They joked about smuggling, like they were trying to re-direct my attention. My guess is that at least some of the locals are bringing things in over the border, but it's all small-time stuff. Mike told me they didn't want any gangsters here; I think it was intended as a warning. Maybe it's one Charles doesn't heed and they turn him in to take the heat off themselves."

"So why do you want to know about the murder?" Al asked. "I thought you were tired of hearing about that."

"Jeanne doesn't think her father did it," Sam said. He went back to looking through the contents of the drawer. "If I could prove he didn't then she might not want to run away, even if I can't get to the bottom of the smuggling and keep the house from being sold."

Al pulled up information on the handlink. "Selling the house seems to be the key, here," he said. "Apparently Matthew and Cyrus had a knock-down drag-out argument over that very issue on the morning of the murder."

"Yeah, I've heard about that," Sam said. Having found nothing in the first cabinet he opened the next. "I've been thinking about it. I can understand why Matthew would want to stay here, the guy didn't like strangers staring at him because of his injuries. He wanted to forget all about the war and stay here with his family and write his books. Would a man like that commit murder?"

"He might; war can do funny things to a man."

"But what if it wasn't about the house at all?" Sam continued. "What if that's just what the family told the police? Maybe Matthew found out about the smuggling. He could've been shocked and demanded that Cyrus stop. Or, or…or he could've wanted a cut. Maybe that's what the fight was really about."

Al consulted the handlink. "There's no information. Cyrus hadn't told anyone in his Chicago office about the proposed sale, but then he might've wanted to tell the family first. If they've closed ranks against outsiders and made up that story there's no way to know."

Sam shut the last drawer. "I'm not seeing anything in here that looks the least bit suspicious. Do you suppose he keeps it all in his head?"

"Or maybe he doesn't want the family to hear anything about it and he keeps it in the Chicago office," Al suggested.

Sam locked the cabinets and put the key back in its hiding place. His face had a thoughtful look. "Hear anything," he said. "Adele said this morning that it's hard to hear what's going on in this big house, especially with the doors shut."

"So nobody heard the murder happen, so what?" Al asked.

"Come on, Al. Let's conduct a little experiment."

Sam led the way to the library, turned on the lights and began looking around. He walked to a large desk in one corner and began opening its various drawers.

Al shot a dirty look at the mounted moose head on the wall, then walked over to the desk to watch Sam. "What 'experiment'," he said. "You don't think Charles would keep anything about smuggling here in the family library do you? That wouldn't be very smart. You want me to ask Ziggy if there's a hidden compartment here, too?"

But Sam had found what he was looking for; he grasped the edge of a shelf and tugged it forward and up. When it locked into place Al could see there was a typewriter on it. Sam rummaged through another drawer and took out a sheet of paper, then rolled it into the typewriter.

"Matthew was supposed to be in here working on his book the evening of the murder," he said, as if that explained what he was doing. "But he couldn't prove it because no one could hear him typing."

"Sam, I told you the murder's been solved," Al said a little testily. "What're you worrying about it for? You need to find something to prove Charles is a smuggler, not play amateur detective."

Susan poked her head in the door and asked, "Did you say something Steven? Is there something I can help you vith?"

Sam looked up, a little startled. "Oh, hi, Susan," he said. "Um, yeah, as a matter of fact you _can_ help me. Matthew was working in here when Cyrus was killed, but no one heard him, right?"

"Ja, that is right. The door vas closed," she said, clearly not sure where this was going.

"I'm going to type something. Would you close the door and listen for a minute and let me know if you can hear the typewriter?"

"Sam, you already _know_ it can't be heard with the door closed," Al said.

Susan gave him a look that said she thought he was wasting time, but agreed nonetheless. She shut the door and said loudly, "All right, I am ready."

"Maybe they were just so used to the noise that they don't remember it," Sam told Al quietly. He began typing 'The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy red dog'. "Damn, I forgot how much strength it takes to type on one of these old things," he muttered. The third time through two keys stuck together and he had to stop to untangle them.

Susan opened the door. "Haf you begun yet?" She saw what he was doing and walked into the room. "Here, you vill need to clean your fingers," she told him, handing him a cleaning rag she'd pulled from a pocket.

"I guess you didn't hear anything, then," he said. He began vigorously wiping the carbon from his fingertips. "Geez, this stuff is hard to get off!"

"No, I told you," she said "Vith the door closed you cannot hear the typing. You remember, Mr. Forrester alvays had ink on his fingers. He vood wipe them on his trousers, and it was difficult for me to get them clean. Und no matter how many times I ask him not to put the old ribbons in that trash can there he vood forget. Ach, they made such a mess for me to clean up."

"It's just a trash can," Sam muttered. "Who cares if it's dirty?"

Susan seemed to be thinking of something and ignored his rhetorical question. "I remember, he had thrown one avay that morning, just before lunch." She smiled fondly, in spite of her irritation over the mess. "I made them a picnic basket that day. He and Dottie und little Jeanne took it out to the voods und spent the entire afternoon outside. Myself, I thought he just vanted to get away from Mr. Cyrus for awhile, after their argument."

"I bet Jeanne loved that," Sam said, smiling.

"He never vorked on that story again," she said sadly. "The police, they arrested him und after some time I put the typewriter avay so it wouldn't upset Dottie to see it."

Sam's face had a cautiously excited look. "Does anyone else ever use it?" he asked.

"Maybe once or twice," she replied. "Mr. Charles has his secretaries at his vork, he doesn't need a typewriter here. Rose und Adele usually vrite their letters longhand, though I think maybe sometimes they vrite something important und use this machine."

"Sam, if that's the same ribbon you can unspool it and read what's been typed!" Al said.

"I know," Sam said.

"Then vy did you ask?" Susan inquired, politely puzzled.

"I _know_ how to prove that Matthew was in here all evening," Sam said. He figured out how to remove the ribbon, grabbed a pencil and stuck it through one of the reels and began rewinding.

"Vat are you doingk?" Susan asked in surprise. "You are going to get your hands filthy!"

"Turn on the desk lamp, please," he instructed. When she did, he held the typewriter ribbon up to the light and began haltingly reading what had been typed, pausing to wind the ribbon as he read.

"You can read vat he vrote?" Susan cried in amazement.

"Only because it was a brand-new ribbon," Sam said, holding it out so she could see the faint shapes of the letters. "If it was an old ribbon you'd have two or three letters on top of each other and you couldn't tell what it said." He lowered the ribbon and looked at her, frustration plain on his face.

"But vat good does that do?" she asked.

"You need the manuscript," Al said. "You can see the change in tone where he put on the new ribbon…"

"So I'll know how much he wrote that night!" Sam finished. "Susan, do you know where Matthew's manuscript is?"

Susan wasn't following this line of logic, but dutifully wished to help. "I think Dottie still has it. Do you vant I should go ask her?"

"Yes!" Sam and Al said together.

Susan left on her quest. "Now you're getting excited about the murder," Sam teased Al.

"Well, you know," Al said in a conciliatory tone. "Maybe you're onto something here. I'd hate to see that little girl grow up without her father."

"I haven't forgotten about the smuggling, Al," Sam said. "I just don't know what else to do, especially tonight. I'll think about it some more later, and see if I can come up with an idea."

They heard a quiet squeak from overhead; Al whipped his head up to gaze at the ceiling. A moment later another creak issued from the other end of the room, a short pause and one more. Al was looking nervous.

"It's just Susan – and maybe Dottie – walking around upstairs," Sam told him. "Remember it's an old house, the floorboards squeak."

Al did his best to look convinced. "Ah, right. You couldn't hear a ghost walk around, anyway."

They heard another squeal from the direction of the staircase, but also the tread of several feet rapidly descending the stairs.

"What did she do, wake up the whole house?" Al asked.

The question was answered as everyone filed excitedly into the library, all talking at once. Dottie held a thick stack of papers clutched to her chest. A hush fell as she extended the manuscript to Sam. "Susan says you need this to prove Matt's innocence," she said. "Can you really do it?" There was hope in her voice.

"How can that silly book prove _anything_" Charles asked harshly.

"At least listen to what he has to say first, Charles," Adele admonished.

"Do you think he subconsciously wrote down something he heard?" Rose asked excitedly. "Some clue that will tell us who the real murderer was?" She paused to think for a moment. "Oh, dear! Maybe there's some psychic trace in the pages; we could hold another séance to ask."

"I come out of the bathroom to see everyone trooping downstairs," Tony said crossly. "What's going on?"

"Show them vat you haf found, Steven," Susan commanded.

"Uncle Steven," Jeanne began, "why did you tear up Daddy's typewriter?"

Sam explained how to read from the typewriter ribbon, letting them each take it in turn to see for themselves. "Now if we look at the manuscript we ought to be able to see where the writing suddenly gets darker." He flipped through the last pages and found the spot. "See, here it's really light, the ribbon was so old it wasn't transferring much ink to the page. He must've finished this chapter, then changed the ribbon to start the next. Dottie, follow along the text as I read and let's see if it matches up."

Dottie leaned over the desk, her finger under the first line of text. "Okay, I'm ready," she told him. The others crowded around her to watch. Al repositioned himself slightly to better appreciate the view of her protruding backside, a look of delight on his face.

Sam began reading from the ribbon, Dottie followed along with her finger under the words. She stopped him halfway down the first page. "There's no need to continue; they definitely match up. Why don't you see if you can find the end, just to be sure."

"Sure," Sam replied. He twirled the reel rapidly around its makeshift spindle until he found untouched ribbon, then began backing it up slowly. It took a few minutes but he was able to read off the last couple of sentences. Matthew had stopped typing in the middle of a word.

"That must've been when he heard my shout, when I found Dad's body." Charles sounded subdued for a change, as if his father's death had finally sunk in.

Dottie counted the final pages. "There's three and a half pages here," she reported.

"I don't quite understand," Susan said hesitantly. "How does this prove Mr. Forrester was vorking like he said?"

"It may not take you long to read three pages, Susan," Sam said. "But it takes a long time for an author to write them because he has to think as he types."

"Matt was an accurate typist, but he was slow," Dottie said. "It would have taken him all evening to type three and a half pages, even if he'd written notes in longhand first."

"That means he couldn't have taken time out to kill anyone," Adele summed it up.

"Then this proves he didn't do it!" Rose exclaimed.

"Well, Mother, it's not rock-solid proof," Charles said. "If he'd planned it out ahead of time he could very well have prepared this."

"But Dear," Adele said. "If he'd planned it out, why didn't he mention the ribbon to the police? Tony, as long as you're over there helping yourself to the liquor, the least you could do is pour one for me. I think this is cause for celebration!"

Tony looked like the proverbial kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. His mouth turned up in an insolent grin when he realized he wasn't in trouble. He poured a glass for Adele and handed it to her. "This is all real interesting, but I don't see that it _proves_ anything."

"Does it, Uncle Steven?" Jeanne asked, wide-eyed. "Are you gonna tell Mr. Schmidt about it?"

Sam smiled at the child. "You bet I am, Jeanne. I'll take this to him first thing tomorrow morning and let him check it out. I don't know if it'll be enough, but it sure seems to me that your Daddy couldn't possibly have hurt your Grandpa Cyrus."

"First thing tomorrow morning we are going to services, Steven," Rose said firmly. "Tomorrow is Sunday, or did you forget?"

"Uh, yeah, sorry," Sam said. Leaping around as he did it was hard enough to keep track of the year, much less the day of the week. "First thing _after_ church."

"Aren't you forgetting something else, Sam?" Al piped up.

"What else am I forgetting?" Sam responded automatically.

"Forgetting that it's Saturday night certainly explains why you're _here_ and not wasting money at that tavern," Charles said acidly.

"This should be enough to cast reasonable doubt on Matthew's guilt," Al said. "But it doesn't tell us who _did_ kill him."

"Did you figure out what it is you think you're overlooking?" Dottie asked.

"Um, yeah," Sam said. "I was so excited about all this that I missed the obvious. We still don't know who _did_ kill Grandfather."

Adele mouthed the word 'smugglers' and gave him an arch grin.

"I can't see who else _could_ have," Charles said. "There was no one else here."

"Was the office door locked?" Sam asked.

"No, Father never locked the door," Charles replied. His mouth turned up in something that might have been a smile. "You know that; you got in trouble enough times for playing in there when you were a boy."

"What about the windows, then?" Sam was trying to think of all the usual possibilities. 

"It vas cool that evening, the vindows vere shut," Susan said. "Ven Mr. Cyrus said he vould vork in there after dinner, I vent in before doingk the dishes to pull the drapes and empty the ashtrays. I remember the police found a cigar still burning in one of them."

"I don't think we'd opened the windows yet that year," Charles said. "After being shut all winter they'd be sticky. They're always difficult to get open that first time."

Sam mentally pictured the room. There was only the one door in or out. Even if a window had been opened for access, how would the killer close it behind him? "It's almost like a classic locked-room mystery!" he commented.

"Straight out of Agatha Christie!" Adele said with a devilish grin. "In _Murder in Mesopotamia_ the first victim is bashed on the head with a heavy stone dropped from the roof when she looks out the window." Her brow furrowed as she recalled more details of the story. "Then the murderer closed the window and moved the body away from it. Do you think that's what happened to Cyrus?"

"Ooh, Sam!" Al spoke up. "I remember that book. It was the killer that 'discovered' the body _after_ setting the scene. _Charles_ discovered Cyrus' body – do you think he killed him?"

"No, I do _not_," Charles said stiffly. "I think someone walked through the door with the express purpose of killing him. They did so and then left the same way. Steven, I'm impressed with what you've done. I'll let you carry on with it and take the evidence to Schmidt tomorrow. We've had quite enough excitement for the moment; I think I'll go back to my room."

"Goodnight, Son," Rose called as he left the room. "Steven, I'm proud of you, Dear. I never did think Matthew was guilty, but I do hope you can figure out who killed my Cyrus. I think I'll go upstairs and consult the Tarot cards, maybe they'll give me some insight. Goodnight everyone."

Tony finished his drink in one gulp. "If we're done with this, I'm heading into town. That's where I was going when this party started." He walked out without saying goodnight.

Dottie sidled up to Sam and kissed him on the cheek. "Thanks, Steven," she told him warmly. "Let me know what Schmidt says tomorrow, okay? Oh, I hope this evidence is enough to get Matt out of prison. I'm so excited I don't know if I can sleep!"

Adele looked pointedly at Jeanne. "Would you like to read your Mommy a story to help her fall asleep? Or maybe she could read _you_ one instead."

"Couldn't I stay down here with Uncle Steven, just for a little while?" Jeanne asked plaintively.

Dottie hugged her daughter and said, "All right. But you need to get to bed soon young lady." She looked like a load had been lifted from her shoulders. "I'm going to write Matt a letter to let him know what you've found. See you in the morning!"

"Vill you be needing anythingk else?" Susan asked.

"No, I think we're all just fine here," Adele said.

As soon as Dottie and Susan left Sam glanced at Adele, then said to Jeanne, "All this talking has made me thirsty. Would you get me a glass of water please?"

"Sure!" Jeanne said. She skipped across the room and out the door.

"You're not thinking _Dad_ did it, are you?" Sam asked Adele.

"Steven!" she said in a tone of mock shock. Then she gave him a wry smile. "I didn't know you read mysteries, especially ones without any sex in them."

Sam shrugged. "A friend told me about that one."

Al gave him a thumbs-up.

"No, I don't really think your father committed patricide," she said firmly. He's not the kindest man I've ever met, but they got along well for the most part. Two peas in a pod; making money is all they ever thought about. These last two years have been hard on him. Oh, he doesn't talk to me about it, but I can tell. For one thing he's gotten cranky about money, always complaining about expenses."

Jeanne ran in with the water, sloshing a bit on the carpet in her haste. "Here you go, Uncle Steven," she said gaily.

"Thanks," Sam told her. He'd wanted to ask Adele more about the family finances, but not in front of Jeanne. He took a big drink of water; it had been a good way to get her out of the room for a moment, but he really was thirsty from all the talking.

"You two have fun," Adele said. "I'm going to see how Dottie's taking this. Bring her upstairs in a little bit, Steven. I'll see you at breakfast."

Jeanne threw her arms around Sam's knees, hugging his legs. "I _knew_ you could do it, Uncle Steven!" she said. She stepped back and looked up at him with an impish grin. "But I know what it was that you forgot about."

"You do?" Sam asked, bewildered.

"The secret tunnel!" Jeanne said.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

"Of course, the secret tunnel," Sam said, trying to sound convincing. "How do _you_ know about it?"

Jeanne grinned happily. "Grandma Adele showed it to me last summer," she said. "If she showed _me_, I know she showed you too."

"I bet there's a hidden door in the office," Al put in. "Cyrus probably used it during Prohibition."

"It's in the office, right?" Sam asked Jeanne.

"Yes," she replied happily. "I even know how to open the panel."

"Get her to show you how, Sam, and you can check it out after she goes to bed."

Sam grinned at her in a conspiratorial manner. "I bet you don't! Wanna show me?"

"Okay, but we'll need to get a flashlight first. There's no electric lights in the tunnel," she said seriously.

They found a flashlight in the kitchen, then went to the office. Jeanne walked straight to the big mirrored bar and waited for Sam. "You have to move that, but I'm not strong enough yet. You push it from this side and it swings out."

"How appropriate," Al commented dryly.

Sam took a firm grip on the side of the cabinet and pushed. It swung out so easily that he nearly fell forward from his momentum. A doorway gaped where the bar had been. In the room's light he could see the top steps of a flight of stairs, but beyond that it was black as coal.

"Jeanne, I'm not sure your mother would like it if you went down there with me," Sam said.

"She knows I've been down there before, she won't mind," Jeanne said.

"Sweetie, it could be dangerous, and no one knows where we are."

"But I wanna go with you!" Jeanne said petulantly. "If you get hurt I can come back for help."

"Tell you what. I'll ask your mommy tomorrow if I can take you in the tunnel. How's that?"

Jeanne frowned, she knew she'd lost the argument. "Okay, Uncle Steven. But I won't let you forget!"

"All right," Sam said. "Let's get you upstairs so you can get some rest."

Sam carried the girl upstairs on his shoulders, cautioning her not to make too much noise this late in the evening. He suspected that both she and Dottie would find sleep a long time coming tonight.

Back in the office again Sam found Al standing at the secret doorway, staring warily into its depths as he puffed on his cigar. "You ready?" Sam asked.

"Not really," Al replied. "Do we really need to go down there? Ziggy can tell us where it goes."

"This has _got_ to be how the killer got into the office," Sam said. "It explains the locked-room mystery, but I don't know why no one else thought of it. You can stay here if you want, but I want to see it for myself. Just knowing where it comes out isn't enough. There might be a clue in it."

"What kind of clue?" Al asked. "Adele and Jeanne have been there since the murder, wouldn't they have seen it?"

"They might not have realized what it meant," Sam said.

"What are you looking for, cigarette butts and footprints? It's a little late to look for muddy shoes in the killer's closet, he's had two years to clean them."

"I don't know, Al," Sam said. "I just want to check it out. C'mon, let's go." He turned on the flashlight and started down the stairs to the tunnel, Al following reluctantly.

There were only four steps, then they found themselves walking on a dirt floor. There was a musty smell and Sam could feel moisture in the air. He shined the light on the walls; he could see shovel marks in the raw earth. Thick wooden beams and uprights braced the tunnel at regular intervals. The flashlight seemed both too-bright and too ineffective at the same time.

"Ah, Sam," Al began. "Where did you say those gangsters were killed again?"

"On the dock," Sam replied.

"_Not_ in the tunnel, then," Al said for clarification. "So no spirits looking for revenge."

"I doubt they even _knew_ about the tunnel," Sam told him. "We're walking downhill, have you noticed that?"

"Yeah, well, the house is built on a small rise, the edge of the area dug out by the glacier when it created the future lakebed. We're heading toward the bay."

"That makes sense," Sam allowed. "This has to connect to the water somewhere, so they could meet the bootlegger's boats." So far the tunnel had been straight as an arrow but Sam continually swung the light from side to side as he walked, looking for anything that seemed out of place.

"Sam!" Al hissed. "What's _that_?"

Sam looked over his shoulder at his friend. "What's _what_? I haven't seen anything in here, not even rats, thank goodness."

Al had his face turned away from the tunnel in front of them, his shoulders hunched, his eyes squeezed shut. "That!" He pointed to the left side of the tunnel, his eyes still closed.

Sam moved the light back and forth trying to find anything out of the ordinary. Finally at the edge of the cone of light he caught sight of something diaphanous and white, swaying in the corner of wall and ceiling. "You mean that ghost down the way?" He had a big grin on his face.

"G-g-ghost?" Al asked in a trembling voice. "You see it too, Sam?" He opened one eye to peer at Sam for confirmation of his pending answer.

Sam decided it was time to stop teasing the overly-superstitious Observer. He wiped the smile off his face and said, "All I see is a big ol' cobweb, Al. It's not a ghost and it can't hurt you. Take another look."

Al opened the other eye and turned slightly to look. "Looks like a ghost to me!" he said. He looked ready to bolt for the safety of the office.

Sam shook his head and walked forward until he was directly under the web. He reached up and ran his hand through the wispy thing, tearing part of it away.

Al stood up straight and sauntered down to meet him, cocky now that he knew the explanation. "Ya gotta admit it looked pretty spooky waving around up there."

Sam pointed the flashlight ahead. They could both see a reflection in the near distance. "Looks like water up ahead," Sam commented. "Could the far end be under water now?"

They moved closer and saw a pool of water; behind it was the end of the tunnel, with an iron ladder affixed to the wall. "The water table's probably high, from the winter snow and spring rains," Al said. "It doesn't look too deep. There should be a pump here somewhere to drain it."

Sam laid the flashlight on the ground, then pulled off his shoes and socks and rolled up his pants legs. "I don't want to mess with draining it, I just want to see what's up that ladder."

"Sam, don't do that, the water's…" Al warned.

"_Cold_!" Sam yelped. Nevertheless he waded resolutely on until he could jump up onto a rung of the ladder. His teeth chattered a little as he climbed; Al floated close behind him. At the top they could see a chain-driven gear with a handle in the middle. It was attached to a rusty iron hatch.

"Give it a whirl, Sam. Let's see what's topside," Al advised.

Sam began turning the handle, round and round. With a hollow grating sound the hatch slowly moved to their right, revealing only more darkness above. "Sounds like the Imaging Chamber door," Sam remarked.

Holding the flashlight above him he cautiously peered over the edge. Al's head appeared to grow out of the partially-open hatch as he moved closer. A squealing groan followed by a hollow thump echoed in the darkness. "It's the boathouse!" Al exclaimed.

Sam moved the light around to get his bearings. There was a stack of jerry cans to his right. "The gas cans were on the door, that's why I didn't see it yesterday!" he said. "There's probably a handle on the top side, too. That means whoever killed Cyrus knew all about this tunnel." He backed down the ladder and began closing the door.

"If Cyrus was bringing in illegal whiskey, where was he storing it? I didn't see any doors in that tunnel," Sam asked.

"Oh, they probably just stacked the crates on the tunnel floor," Al replied. "But I don't see any crates there now. Maybe Adele was right, and Cyrus gave it all up after the gunfight at the OK Corral."

Sam was standing backwards on the last dry rung, contemplating the frigid water beneath him. "Which leaves us no nearer figuring out what Charles might be up to." He pushed off as hard as he could, landing about halfway across the water. He waded the rest of the way, then sat on the dirt floor to pull on his socks and shoes over wet feet.

"You look cold, Sam," Al commented.

"Yeah, a hot bath sounds real good right now," Sam replied, shivering. "I'm frustrated, Al. I feel like I'm close, but I can't figure out either problem. There must be something I don't know yet – something Steven didn't know, either, or he'd have resolved it and I wouldn't even be here."

"Maybe you'll find out more when you talk to the local cop tomorrow, but I doubt he knows anything about smuggling."

Sam parked the Jag in front of the little town's police department. It was a small separate building near the end of the business section on the main street. Built of native stone, so the jail should be good and solid; from the size Sam figured it probably had two cells. A town this size probably only needed one, and that for the drunks. He walked up to the door and turned the knob, but it was locked.

"George's probably down at the café," someone yelled from a passing car.

He went back to the car and started it up. That made sense, he supposed. Sunday afternoon should be quiet, and he could hardly blame the policeman for not posting a sign giving his whereabouts. The café was on the other end of the main drag, and from the number of cars out front it seemed to be the popular place to be. The one car he didn't see was a police car.

Sam walked in the door and looked around. The chrome and Formica tables were all occupied, and so was the counter. He'd ask someone where Schmidt was and be on his way. He hadn't come here to eat anyway, though the food smelled good. Someone in a back booth was waving to get his attention – it was Sally DuBois.

He walked over to the booth. "Hi, Sally. I was just looking for George Schmidt, somebody told me he was here but I don't see him." He sincerely hoped Schmidt wasn't out of uniform.

"Haven't seen him this morning," Sally replied. "Why don'tcha have some lunch and maybe he'll show up. He usually does this time of day. You remember Karen, don'tcha?"

Karen was tall with a heavy frame and large, rather horsey, features; her dark blonde hair was pulled into a homely bun on top of her head. Her cheerful smile belied the picture of frumpiness her appearance brought to mind. "Hello, Steven," she said. "Please, join us."

Sam started to sit with Karen, but Sally grabbed his hand to pull him onto the seat next to her. "We just got here, ourselves," she said, still holding Sam's hand.

Karen handed him a menu, giving him a good excuse to pull free of Sally's grasp. As he read through the entries Karen said, "I haven't seen you in town for quite awhile. I guess you're here for your family; this weekend will be hard on them."

"Yeah," Sam said. "I don't know how long I'll be here."

"You'll be here forever if you don't get off this murder kick and start figuring out what Charles is smuggling and get him to stop," Al said.

Sam looked up in surprise, as the hum of conversation had masked Al's entrance. Today he was wearing a white suit, with metallic gold shirt and matching sneakers.

Al took the seat next to Karen, looked across the table and spotted Sally with her tight sweater clinging to her ample assets. "Hello! Who's this tasty dish?"

By way of introductions to Al, Sam looked at each young woman in turn. "Sally, Karen, what sounds good to you?"

The harried waitress showed up at that moment and they ordered. Karen put the menus back in place. "How's your Grandmother handling this?" she asked.

Sam grinned. "She's holding séances, consulting Tarot cards, and hoping for dream meetings with Grandfather," he replied.

"I'm not surprised!" Karen said, grinning herself. "That house practically _begs_ for that kind of thing, don't you think? The stories about your Great Grandmother, and all those closed-off rooms. Have you ever seen the ghost yourself?"

Sam suddenly remembered that Tony had once been engaged to a girl named Karen. "I don't believe in ghosts," he told her. "I guess Tony showed you around the place?"

"Well, you should!" she said with feeling. Her smile turned a little rueful. "Yeah, I visited him there several times. Rose made us stay in the parlor, she didn't think it was proper for me to go to his room. But we'd usually manage to sneak upstairs for a little privacy. We were on the stairs one night, coming down from the top floor, when I saw _something_ moving down the second-floor hall. It was a kind of white mist, vaguely human-shaped, and I _swear_ it seemed to turn its head and glare at us."

"There's really a ghost?" Al asked, looking shocked.

"Why would it glare at you?" Sam asked seriously.

"Because it wants something," Al answered for Sam's ears alone. "Something sinister."

Karen laughed merrily. "Because we weren't family, and she didn't know who we were!"

"Sam, I _told_ you that house was spooky!" Al said in an I-told-you-so tone. "I hope you Leap out of here soon; I don't want to take any chances of meeting up with that ghost."

"And how many drinks did you have while you were in Tony's room?" Sally asked in a mocking tone. "I know I see things sometimes when I get off work in the early morning hours."

Karen's face turned serious. "We didn't exactly go up there to drink. Maybe it was a trick of the light, but I saw something I can't explain. All in all I'm glad I didn't end up living there – no offense, Steven."

"None taken," Sam said.

Sally looked around the café. "I need some more coffee," she said. "The girls are busy. Let me out, Steven, and I'll go get us some." She bumped her hip against Sam's to emphasize her point. Sam stood up to let her out, then sat back down.

"I was sorry to hear about your Grandfather, though," Karen continued. "I really rather liked him, he was always nice to me."

"Thanks," Sam said.

"I was right here when I heard the news," she told him. "Tony and I had left the Moosehead early that evening, around 8:00 – you remember, you were there."

"I wasn't really paying attention," Sam said. Though he did remember Sally saying something about that yesterday. "Guess you had to get up for work the next day."

She looked a little embarrassed. "I wish I _had_ gone home. No, actually Tony suggested we get a six-pack and take a romantic walk out by the lake."

Sam picked up on her uneasiness. "What's wrong with that?"

"After awhile we were tired and cold and more than a little tipsy," she said. "So we went to an old abandoned cabin that Tony knew about. The hunters use it sometimes; they dragged in some old furniture, couch, chairs, a bed."

Sam thought he knew how this story was going to end, and was a little surprised she'd want anyone to know about it.

Karen read the look on his face. "Oh, no, it's not what you think! That might have been what Tony had planned, but it didn't work out that way."

"Sure, it didn't," Al commented. "A walk in the moonlight, a couple beers, a convenient cabin in the woods. Sounds like something I'd plan. In fact, I _did_ plan something just like that once…"

Sam frowned at him from across the table. "Why? What happened?" he asked Karen.

"I guess I'd had more to drink than I'd thought," she replied. "Because not long after we got there I suddenly felt really sleepy. I couldn't keep my eyes open a moment longer. I vaguely remember Tony carrying me over to the bed, and I guess he was sleepy too because he was there beside me when I woke up the next morning. We stopped in here for breakfast, and heard the bad news."

Al had pulled out the handlink and was punching in a query. "That's exactly the alibi Tony gave to the police," he said. "They passed out at the cabin and spent the night there. Karen corroborated it."

Sally returned with the coffeepot, and leaned over the table to refill their cups. "Marilyn told me she saw you two in here that morning," she said. "She said you looked like Hell."

Al was busily moving his head back and forth, trying to take in both back and front views of Sally at the same time.

"I felt like Hell, too," Karen said, shaking her head in remorse at the memory. "I had a hangover deluxe. You know, it was the funniest thing, I swear I could smell stale cigar smoke when I woke up. Thought I was gonna puke."

"It doesn't take much to make you sick when you're hung over," Sally said. "Trust me." She left the table, pausing to serve a few other customers on her way to returning the pot.

Al watched her swaying hips as she walked. "She can serve me anytime!" he said with a gleam in his eye. He noticed Sam's look of disapproval and amended his statement. "_Lunch_. She can serve me lunch anytime." He affected an air of having been falsely accused.

"One of the hunters probably smoked a cigar in there," Sam offered. "The damp morning air probably brought the smell out."

"Maybe so," she said. "Though I don't remember smelling it when we got there. I saw a cigar stub in an ashtray, maybe my mind just conjured up the ghost of the smell."

"There's that word again," Al said, looking around as if the mere word had the power to conjure up the reality.

Sam's face grew thoughtful. Something about the cigar stub rang a faint bell. "The cigar sounds important, but I can't think why."

"You're thinking of the time you Leaped into _me_," Al said. "You remember, you found Chip's cigar stub in the ashtray of my Corvette. That proved he was driving the car that night, not me."

"Well, Tony does smoke cigars sometimes," she said. "When he can swipe one from the house," she added ironically.

"Karen, will you take me to that cabin after lunch?" Sam asked.

"Sure, but why?"

"Are you _sure_ Tony was there the whole night?"

"You think Tony might've killed your Grandfather?" Karen asked in surprise. "George asked me that same question. At the time I was sure, but now I don't know. I wouldn't lie for him, especially not with the way things turned out, but I don't have any reason to believe he _wasn't_ there all night either."

"Sam, that cigar won't prove anything," Al said. "This is 1954, DNA testing is forty years in the future. Even if it's still there, and it probably isn't, he could've smoked it anytime. _Anybody_ could've left it there. Will you forget about the murder already? You need to get busy with the smuggling, that's why you're here, Sam."

Sally came back to the table and, instead of waiting for Sam to get up, sat down and pushed her hip against his in a wordless demand for him to move over.

"For Heaven's sake, Sally, give the man some room!" Karen said, laughing.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

They'd had a little trouble convincing Sally not to come with them to the cabin. Al had commented that she was jealous and Sam thought he was right. She hadn't seemed to believe his statement that they were just going for a quick look, but had finally had to accede to space limitations; the Jaguar was a true two-seater.

Karen directed him on a couple of false leads before she found the right side road. The cabin was well off the main road and in fact they had to park the car and walk a way to get to it. They could see the lake sparkling in the sunlight in front of them. A stiff wind was blowing off the water, making it even cooler walking through the thick trees.

Sam might've missed it, but Karen saw the cabin off to their left. Its rough wooden planks had weathered to a dark gray color and trees had grown up around it over the years. One window had been boarded up and though the rest retained their glass, it was so grimy as to be useless. The front door had no lock and Sam pushed it open. 

The interior was just as rough. The mismatched furniture looked like it had been salvaged from the dump but at least the room sheltered them from the wind. There were signs of occasional occupation; tin cans full of cigarette butts, a pile of beer bottles in one corner, and an old Sterno stove on a small table.

Karen peered at the makeshift ashtrays. "Looks like someone's cleaned up a little," she said. "Of course it's been a long time."

Sam checked the stone fireplace. "I think someone cooked what they shot, I can see burnt bones." He turned to face her. "Karen, I didn't really think the cigar would still be here. I can't explain it, I just feel like there's a clue here somewhere."

She pointed to a small second room containing an old iron bedstead with a worn mattress and several ratty blankets. A wooden fruit crate served as a nightstand. She shook herself with disgust. "I _must_'ve been drunk to sleep on that thing!"

"Or drugged," Sam said. "Tony could've slipped you a Mickey Finn, that's why you passed out. Chloral hydrate would explain why you felt so bad the next morning, too."

"The beer didn't taste funny," she said. Then she grinned ironically. "Of course I'd already had several, so I'm not sure I would've noticed if it had."

"It's tasteless and odorless, so you wouldn't have noticed anything. It takes about an hour to take effect, so he'd have had to dose your beer while you were out walking."

She looked at him questioningly. "But why would he do that? Even if he knocked me out and left me here while he killed Cyrus someone would've seen him driving to the house, wouldn't you think? Maybe they did and just didn't think anything about it; after all he lives there."

"Do you remember if the car was parked in the same place the next morning?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I wouldn't have a clue. Seemed like it was a five-mile hike back to it, that's all I remember."

Sam looked around the place and frowned. He felt like he was on the right track, but there was something he wasn't seeing. "I'm missing something. Let's take a look around the outside since we're here."

They walked around the side of the cabin but there was nothing to see. Various bits of rusty junk had been covered with thick drifts of dead leaves. Sam wondered if one of them was the murder weapon; there'd be no way to prove it now after two years out in the weather. What had he expected to find here?

The cabin was close to the lake, and by unspoken agreement they walked out of the trees and up to the shore to soak up a little warm sunshine before heading back through the cool forest. The vista was just as inspiring from this vantage point, the great lake seeming to go on forever in front of them. They could see dark clouds moving in from the west; it would rain again soon.

"There's your house, Steven." Karen was pointing off to her left.

Sure enough, Sam could see the massive stone mansion perched on top of a small hill. It didn't look that far away across the arc of the shoreline, but he knew it would take some time to drive to it from here. It would be a much shorter distance as the crow flies. He looked at the rickety dock in front of him; at the far end there was a heavy rope tied to the piling but hanging down into the water as if attached to something. Out of curiosity he looked closer.

"Hey, there's a boat down there," he said, pointing. "It's in worse shape than the cabin!"

Karen looked closer. "It's just been sunk for the winter," she said offhandedly.

"Deliberately?" he asked in surprise.

She gave him a funny look. "Most of us don't have a fancy boathouse, Steven." She was trying not to sound accusatory. "A sunken boat doesn't get blown around in the wind and torn loose from its mooring. It doesn't crack when the water freezes, as long as it's below the freeze-line. Especially with little wooden rowboats like that you just pull 'em out in the spring and let 'em dry out and they're just fine."

Sam nodded his head in comprehension, but he was thinking. He estimated the distance across the water. "How long would it take to row from here to the house? Maybe thirty minutes?"

"Maybe less if you're a strong man," she allowed.

"I know how he did it!" Sam said excitedly.

"Tony?" she asked. "He rowed across the lake from here?"

"Exactly!" he said. "He must've planned it all out, pulled the boat out beforehand, knocked you out so you'd be his alibi."

He heard the Imaging Chamber door open and saw Al step out of it.

"Sam!" Al said. He pointed with his cigar. "This cabin is just across the lake from the mansion. It'd be easy to row across to the dock and…"

"Use the secret tunnel," Sam finished.

"Secret tunnel?" Karen asked.

"Oh, you already figured that out, I guess," Al said rather dispiritedly.

"There's a tunnel between the boathouse and the house, Cyrus used it to smuggle bootleg whiskey during the twenties," Sam said. Now that the explanation was clear he was speaking fast. "Tony must've set this up then when you were passed out he rowed across the lake, and went in through the tunnel so no one would see him. It leads straight to the office. He killed Cyrus and then came back the same way." He paused a moment to let all the pieces fall into place in his mind. "He'd have had to pump the water out the tunnel or wear waders or something like that. He probably threw the murder weapon in the lake, they'll never find it."

Karen nodded at the logic. "I've heard rumors about that tunnel, but I just thought it was a tall tale the old men told. I guess it could've happened like that – but why would he kill your Grandfather? He loves his job there with your family."

They heard a noise from the trees behind them. "Sam, look out!" Al cried.

Sam had started to turn to assess the danger when a man's body hit him from the side, knocking him to the ground.

"Tony!" Karen cried.

Tony punched Sam in the stomach, but without much power as the fall had knocked some of the wind out of him. Sam pushed upward with his arm and leg, pushing Tony off him. Tony landed with an "oof" and Sam sprang up, ready for action.

"Karen, run!" Sam commanded. He knew better than to take his eyes off his opponent, but he could hear her feet pounding the ground and knew she was following orders. He'd left the keys in the car so she could get safely away.

Tony stood up, dusted his hands off, and faced him. "I saw that fancy car of yours heading out here, so I followed just in case. I didn't think you were smart enough to figure it out." His right fist shot out to hit Sam's jaw.

Sam saw it coming and took a step back, out of Tony's reach. "But I did, Tony," he said. "You might as well give up. Karen's heading for the car, and town. She'll tell Officer Schmidt about the chloral hydrate, the rowboat, and the tunnel."

"Coral who?" Al asked, always ready to assume something related to women.

"No!" Tony cried as he launched himself toward Sam, intending to knock him down again.

Sam stood his ground, judging distance and speed, and at the last second danced to the side. At the same time he seized Tony's right hand and pulled it downward and forward sharply, causing Tony's body to pivot around its midsection and somersault through the air. Tony landed hard and sat on the ground, breathing heavily.

Sam stepped back out of his reach, hoping the fight had been knocked out of the man. He heard the sound of pounding feet and realized that Karen had returned. Tony remained where he was, head hanging down in surrender.

"Oh, no, Sam! Don't let her get too close to him," Al yelled.

Sam turned his head slightly to his left to see Karen approaching, with a large rock in her hands. "Karen!" he shouted. "Stop right there! Don't give him a chance to take you hostage."

Karen skidded to a halt, but brandished the rock menacingly. "You _used_ me!" She spat the words at Tony. "I ought to bash _your_ head in just for that."

Suddenly Tony lunged forward, grabbing Sam's ankle and pulling. Sam slid down onto his back and Tony crawled on top of him, arms outstretched, his hands around Sam's throat. Sam worked his arms up until his hands met above his chest, inside the prison of Tony's rigid arms. With a quick, deliberate motion he flung his arms hard to either side, breaking the grip on his throat.

"Sorry, Sam, I wasn't watching him. I thought he was down for the count," Al said.

Sam tried to get up but Tony's weight wouldn't allow it. They began wrestling, rolling this way and that, each trying to get the advantage over the other. Tony raised his arm to throw a punch, but the action lessened the weight trapping Sam and temporarily put Tony off balance. Sam took advantage of the momentary opportunity to push the other man to the side and roll over on top, pinning Tony's right arm against the ground. Tony swung with his left and they rolled again as Sam desperately tried to dodge the blow. Tony sat astride Sam, and used the position to hammer Sam's face with several strikes with his fists.

But they'd both forgotten about Karen, who now darted in and tried to hit Tony's arm with her rock. Her intentions were good but her aim wasn't; the rock only grazed the edge of his arm. She dropped the rock just before her hands completed their arc and struck her legs. The rock fell on Tony's foot. This served as a distraction to him, giving Sam a chance to throw a punch of his own. Tony reared back to get away from the dual onslaught and Sam was able to scramble out from under him and get to his feet.

Tony followed suit as Karen darted after her makeshift weapon. The three of them stood in a rough circle, eyeing each other warily. Al found himself in the middle and scurried out of the way so as to not block Sam's vision. Tony shifted to his left, closer to Sam. Sam moved an equal distance to his left as did Karen, keeping the dance going.

"It's two against one," Karen said. "You can't fight us both."

Tony said nothing but continued to circle slowly, darting glances left and right to keep tabs on both opponents.

"Sam, there's a big rock sticking up outta the ground," Al warned. "Don't trip on it."

Sam extended his leg to feel for the obstacle and stepped gracefully over it. "We know you killed Cyrus," he said. "We know the basics, why don't you fill in the details?"

Tony laughed; a short, hard expulsion of breath. "This isn't some book where the killer feels the need to confess," he said.

"At least tell us _why_," Karen pleaded.

"Because the old fart was gonna sell the house, and I'd be out of a job," Tony replied calmly.

"That must've made you feel really helpless," Sam told him. "Your family's worked for mine for a hundred years; you thought you'd pass the job to your own son someday. You liked your job, you were good at it. You wanted things to stay just the way they were." Out of the corner of his eye Sam saw Karen edging closer to Tony, whose attention was on Sam. "I can understand that you'd be angry at the prospect of losing your position. There'd be no guarantee that the new owner would want to keep you on."

"Whose side are you on, Sam?" asked Al, who was following along behind Sam.

Karen raised the rock in both hands, ready to strike, but Tony caught the movement and dashed toward her. She threw the rock, but he was too close now and it flew over his head. He reached out with both hands and pushed her away; she tripped over something and fell with a cry of surprise and frustration.

"Oh, you were just keeping his attention focused on you to give her a chance to…"

Even as Al spoke Sam ran across the intervening space. Tony realized his mistake and spun around just in time to see Sam's leg swing in a wheel kick to the side of his head. He went down heavily, and stayed down this time.

Though Tony's eyes were closed and he looked like he was really unconscious this time, Sam didn't trust him. "Karen!" he called, still watching Tony. "Are you okay?"

"Nothing bruised but my ego," she replied as she stood up and brushed at her clothes. She approached cautiously, stopping at Sam's side. "I don't suppose it would be fair for me to hit him with the rock now," she said, only half-jokingly.

"It'd serve that nozzle right if she did," Al put in, tapping cigar ash over the prone form for added, if unfelt, insult.

Sam chuckled at her intensity. "I wouldn't say a word if you did, but if you give him a concussion he can't talk to Schmidt. We don't have any _real_ proof, he could always claim we made up the things he told us."

"He wouldn't have attacked us if he had nothing to hide," she pointed out reasonably.

"She's got a good point there," Al said.

"You're right," Sam replied to both. "Karen, you go back to the cabin and see if you can find anything to tie him up with. We need to let him wake up; I'll be damned if I'm gonna carry him all the way to the car!"

Karen grinned wickedly. "After what he did to me I'd cheerfully kick his ass the whole way. But I suppose it would be less effort to make him walk." She started for the cabin, then stopped and turned around. "Steven, how are we gonna fit three people in that little car of yours?"

"You could always tie him across the bonnet," Al suggested.

"Hood," Sam translated in a whisper to himself.

Karen laughed heartily. "Tie him down to the hood? I love it! Maybe we can tear up some of those filthy blankets." She headed for the cabin at a trot.

"She didn't hear me, did she?" Al asked.

"No, she's not quite young enough for that. And she's not psychic, either," Sam said. Overhead a dark cloud blotted out the sun and they could hear faint thunder in the distance. Sam shivered, as much from the release of tension as the cool air.

Al looked up at the sky with a worried look. "Aw, dammit, Sam. You still haven't done anything to stop the smuggling and we'll have to go back to that spooky old mansion again. With all the talk about murder – and this storm coming in – that ghost is sure to walk the halls tonight."


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

"How thrilling!" Adele cried. "Steven, you shall play the role of Monsieur Hercule Poirot, and tell us all how the murder was done." They were in the library again, sitting in the conversation area. Adele had just turned off the overhead lights, insisting the light from the small table lamps set a more intimate scene. The storm had arrived and rain was beating against the windows while the occasional flash of lightning briefly illuminated the room. Susan finished serving cocktails and took a seat.

"I'll tell you what Tony told the police," Sam corrected.

"Oh, but you must tell us how you figured out it was Tony," Adele insisted.

Al stood behind Sam's chair at the head of the group. He took a puff of his cigar and said, "You know, Sam, Poirot always started by pointing the finger at each person in turn. Then he'd explain why they couldn't _p-possibly_ have done it."

"Are you going to make us each look guilty and then prove our innocence?" Dottie asked, seemingly delighted with the whole idea.

Al looked at her askance, remembering that she had apparently sensed his presence two nights ago. Thunder rattled the windows, further re-enacting that scene.

"Don't be ridiculous," Charles snapped. "Let's get this over with before dinnertime." In response to Adele's glare he added, "I _do_ want to know all about it."

"So do I!" Jeanne piped up. She wiggled happily in the over-stuffed chair that swallowed her small body. "I _knew_ my Daddy didn't hurt Grandpa Cyrus."

"Let's give the boy a chance to speak," Rose suggested.

"Well, maybe I should start with the sequence of events," Sam told them. "When I'm done you can ask any questions you might have."

His audience settled in for the tale, all eyes on Sam.

"I guess I should start with _why_," Sam said. "We all know that Grandfather had decided to sell the house, and no one was happy with his decision. He and Matthew had that big fight, which is what made Matthew look so good for the murder." Heads nodded in the dim light.

"Tony was just as upset, only no one asked him. Susan was going to move into the Chicago house, but we didn't need a gardener there so he'd be out of a job. The new owner wouldn't care that Tony's family had always worked here, and they might not be so charitable about his drinking."

"He had it pretty cushy here," Charles put in. "I knew he goofed off a lot, and drank of course. But he got the work done and that was good enough for me."

"Why didn't he say something?" Dottie wanted to know.

Sam forbore to point out that they were already interrupting with questions. "He did. He had a talk with Grandfather earlier in the day. Unfortunately he happened to do it just after the scene with Matthew, so Grandfather wasn't particularly nice about it."

"I can just imagine!" Charles said. "First the wimpy grandson-in-law and then the hired man asking him to change his mind. No, he wouldn't have liked that one little bit."

"Cyrus never did stand for anyone trying to change his mind once he had it made up," Rose said.

"So he decided to kill Cyrus because of that?" Adele asked.

"He knew I was only going along with the sale because Father wanted it," Charles said. "I spend most of my time in Chicago so I didn't really care either way; but I know how much everyone else loves living here. And it's a pleasant place to come when I want to relax."

"If you call spending all day in that office relaxing," Adele muttered under her breath.

"If they'd all just shut up you could get on with the story," Al said cynically.

"Let him tell what happened!" Dottie commanded.

Again Al eyed her suspiciously. "She should've been leading the séance the other night; I think she's got ESP." He didn't look particularly happy at the thought.

"Even though it was a Wednesday night, Tony asked Karen Nillson to meet him at the Moosehead," Sam said. "You remember, they were engaged at the time. They spent quite a bit of time at the bar anyway, so it didn't seem odd. I, uh, saw them in there myself, and was vaguely aware they'd left sometime around 8:00 PM." He was uncomfortable with the lie, but knew that Steven had witnessed the events so it was sort-of true. Besides, it wasn't like he was testifying in court here.

"That does seem a little odd," Dottie said. "They usually closed the place down."

"Well, I, uh, wasn't paying much attention to them," Sam said. "But apparently they made quite a bit of noise about picking up a 6-pack and taking a romantic walk at the lake."

"Nothing good comes of that kind of behavior," Rose said in a superior tone. "Goodness knows I'd had to keep my eye on them when that girl would come to visit. Always trying to sneak off upstairs, un-chaperoned."

"Grandma Rose, they were going to be married soon so what's the difference?" Dottie asked.

"The _point_ is that Tony wasn't looking for romance that night," Sam put in before things got out of hand. "He only wanted it to _look_ that way. After an hour or so of walking around they were tired and cold and drunk, so he suggested they go to an old hunter's cabin he new about. But he'd drugged her beer, and as soon as they got there she passed out. And he'd only pretended to be really drunk so she'd think he'd passed out too." Sam was getting wound up now.

"He had his alibi at the expense of Karen's reputation," Rose remarked.

"Exactly," Sam said. "There's an old boat at that cabin, Tony knew about that too. As soon as Karen was asleep he rowed across the lake, it wasn't very far, and tied up at our dock."

"He used the tunnel!" Charles said as he figured it out. "I'd forgotten all about it. He had a key to the boathouse, so that was easy enough."

"Of course!" Adele said. "That's the answer to your locked-room mystery, Steven. I guess we didn't think about it because we assumed no one else knew about it. It's been _years_ since it's been used."

Rose had a determined look on her face; clearly she wasn't looking forward to hearing the details of her husband's death, yet she needed to know. "How did it happen, Steven?" she asked firmly, though she was gripping Dottie's hand for support.

The storm had been worsening, and a large bolt of lightning hit close to the house, as if to increase the suspense.

"Grandfather had gotten up as soon as the bar started moving, and knew something was wrong when Tony came out," Sam said. "Tony tried one more time to talk him out of selling the house, but he was apparently quite sharp about refusing. Tony had a gun…"

"Oh, dear," Rose said softly, thinking how tense the situation must've been for Cyrus.

"Grandfather managed to get it away from him," Sam continued. "Tony didn't exactly say how. Apparently they fought and Tony was knocked down. Grandfather took the gun and was heading for the phone to call the police when Tony grabbed one of those big heavy ashtrays and hit him over the head."

Lightning flashed outside the windows again, and the lights flickered momentarily. Adele looked distressed. "Ghost stories aren't so much fun when the ghost is someone you knew," she said quietly.

Al looked even more nervous. "Does she have to keep talking about ghosts?" he asked. "It's like she's just _begging_ one to show up."

"We're not talking about ghosts," Sam told them both. "Murder is scary enough."

"It's horrible," Dottie said. "I can guess what happened next. Tony took his gun back and the ashtray with Grandfather's blood on it and left via the tunnel. He probably dropped the ashtray in the lake on his way back to the cabin." She paused as she thought about something. "It's funny, you'd think we'd have noticed one was missing."

Susan had been listening quietly, but now she spoke up. "Ach, but he had so many! I never paid attention to them except to keep them clean. I wish now I had seen that one was gone."

"It wouldn't have mattered," Sam said.

"You haven't explained how you figured it out," Adele said.

"Tony did one more thing before he left – he stole one of Grandfather's cigars. Karen said he did that sometimes, and Grandfather had been smoking which gave him the idea. He took it back to the cabin and smoked it there as a kind of sick celebration. Karen told me she smelled stale cigar smoke the next morning."

Dottie seemed to be looking over Sam's shoulder. "You know, it's funny," she mused. "I can almost _see_ a misty trace of that smoke behind you."

"You _can_?" Al asked, his eyes slightly bugged-out and mouth hanging open in trepidation.

"Perhaps it's Cyrus' ghost," Adele said in a melodramatic tone. "He's come here tonight to be assured his true killer will pay for his foul deed."

Rose sat up a little straighter. "Yes, I think I can see him; he's all dressed in white."

"You can see me?" Al asked, even more apprehensive.

"Of course he is, Mother," Charles said, though he rolled his eyes at the others so she couldn't see. "He was buried in his white suit." His tone made it clear he thought she was imagining things.

"But there's something funny about his shoes," Rose said thoughtfully. "They're all shiny."

Al raised a foot to inspect his shiny gold sneakers as if verifying Rose's description. "Sam, this is getting _weird_." He looked like he was ready to bolt.

"Cyrus, Dear, everything's fine," Rose said in a tender loving voice. "We now know what happened, and he will be punished. You can rest now, Cyrus; I'll see you again in Heaven."

Al said, "I can't take much more of this!" He stabbed frantically at the handlink. Rose blew a kiss in his direction as he disappeared. Sam saw him reappear behind Rose's chair.

"I think he's gone now," Sam said, then turned his head to wink at Charles.

Dottie looked pensive. "I still feel a presence," she said. She shrugged. "I guess he's waiting to hear the rest. I don't understand how you figured it out from the smoke."

"I didn't at first," Sam admitted. "It just sounded like it was out of place and that made me curious. It wasn't until I saw the house across the bay from the cabin that I figured it out."

"That doesn't sound like proof to me," Charles said.

Sam grinned. "It wasn't. If Tony hadn't tried to kill Karen and me I couldn't have proved a thing. But once we delivered him to George Schmidt he knew he was sunk, and admitted everything." He paused for a moment, remembering. "He seemed to think we'd added insult to injury because we took him back in his own car; there wasn't room in mine."

"And Matt will be set free?" Dottie asked.

"George says it will probably take a few weeks, but yes, he'll be completely exonerated."

"Did you give him that typewriter ribbon and manuscript?" Susan asked.

"Well, yeah, I did," Sam said. "It didn't seem all that important after Tony's confession, but I figured it couldn't hurt."

Jeanne couldn't contain herself any longer. "My Daddy's going to come home?" she asked happily.

"Yes, Dear, he is!" Dottie told her. "Steven, I can't thank you enough. You've made the whole family happy today."

Out of Rose's sight now, Al consulted the handlink. He shook his head. "They may be happy now, Sam, but nothing else has changed. Charles still goes to jail for smuggling, the house is still sold, and little Jeanne still runs away." He cringed a bit as thunder crashed above their heads. "I _told_ you you weren't here for the murder."

"There's something else I need to tell you," Sam said, his voice clueing them in that they wouldn't like it. "Does anyone know why Grandfather wanted to sell the house in the first place?"

"No, he never said," Charles said as if it didn't matter. The rest of the group shook their heads as well.

"Tony accused Cy, uh, Grandfather of smuggling," he said, looking at Charles for confirmation or denial. He got neither.

"Even if he was, what's that got to do with selling the house?" Adele asked.

Sam waited a beat, but no one else spoke. "Tony said Grandfather had decided it was time to stop, that it was getting too dangerous." Again he looked at Charles, who refused to meet his eyes. "The family business was losing money." He put a slight emphasis on the word 'family'.

Charles sighed deeply and refused to look at anyone. "You're right, Steven. It was, and it _is_. I thought it was because Father was trying to play it too safe; I thought I could do better." He looked up, his eyes begging them to understand.

Adele looked unaccustomedly serious. "Are we in real trouble, Charles?"

"No, but it's not far off if something doesn't change, and soon," he replied.

"I don't understand, Son," Rose said. "What does one have to do with the other?"

Charles had the air of a man who has suddenly had a great weight lifted from his shoulders. He'd wanted to tell them so many times, but hadn't known how. Now it was out in the open, though he still couldn't see a solution. "It's an expensive business," he began. "You have to pay people to look the other way – ship's crew, dock workers, even the police. You have to hire men who know how to hide contraband, and build special containers for it. You have to set up your routes to accommodate the goods, even if it's not the most direct course. There's a lot more to it than you'd think."

"I'll suppose next he'll complain that the cops don't stay bought without more dough," Al said scornfully.

Everyone else was looking confused, but Dottie said, "And it's getting harder to find workers both dishonest and cheap."

"Jeez!" Al exclaimed nervously. "She's still reading me. I must be too close, I'll just go back to where I was and hope the old lady doesn't still see me." He sidled back to his previous station behind Sam, watching Rose carefully for signs of recognition.

"Yes, that's a big part of it," Charles admitted. "I found out the hard way; the more risks you take the more it costs. Used to be no one really cared, but now the authorities are cracking down on that kind of thing and it's getting easier to get caught if you're not careful. I kept trying to make it work, but I guess I don't have the head for it."

"Just what is it that you're smuggling?" Sam asked.

"Oh, art, jewelry, money, gold and gemstones, archaeological artifacts, guns, and anything else that hasn't been legally acquired, or needs to be moved quietly," Rose said calmly.

"You _knew_?" practically everyone asked at once.

"Cyrus told me all about it," she said with aplomb. "But I wasn't supposed to tell anyone. I guess it doesn't matter now. After that nasty business on our dock he thought it would be better to organize things instead of being directly involved."

"Yeah, about the bootlegging," Sam said. "Tony told the police that Grandfather wanted him to block off the tunnel entrances before he sold the house, that's how the subject came up between them."

"Good grief!" Charles said. "I just realized; George will alert the customs people, and I'll be caught red-handed." He looked around at his family, fear on his face for all to see. Then he smiled, a little sheepishly. "Father was right. There's only one answer – it's got to stop, and right now."

"That'll give you more resources for the legitimate business," Sam said.

Charles looked around the room, catching everyone's eye in turn. "I'm really sorry," he said. "I thought I was doing the right thing. I only hope it's not too late. If you'll excuse me, I have some telephone calls to make." He stood up to leave.

At that moment lightning sizzled seemingly just outside the window, and thunder cracked almost simultaneously. The lamps flickered, then went out. The group held their collective breath, waiting for the lights to come back on. The room remained dark. Jeanne whimpered quietly.

"The fuse has blown," Susan announced calmly. "I vill go und replace it." The creak of her chair as she stood up was loud in the darkness.

Another bolt of lightning flashed outside the windows. Though it hadn't hit close to the house it was particularly bright. So bright, in fact, that it seemed to leave an after-image in their vision. But instead of the sharp angular shape of the lightning, this was an amorphous blob. It might have been a cloud of mist seeping through some chink in the window frame, solidifying and growing as it encountered the warmer air of the room.

No one spoke, though they all came to their feet to watch in fascination. The cloud moved into the room, changing shape until it looked almost human, like a woman wearing a long, full, white nightgown. No one moved as it glided closer to the group. Even Al was uncharacteristically silent, though Sam could see a look of terror on his friend's face. He wasn't sure what expression his own face held.

The apparition seemed to raise a hand in greeting as it drifted by Rose; it nodded at Dottie and passed its hand over Jeanne's head as if caressing it. It passed behind Susan with an apparent pat on the shoulder. It paused before Charles and let its hand linger on his.

Next it slid over to Sam, but suddenly turned its head sharply to take in Al as if it had just noticed him. Al stood his ground, looking the thing squarely in the face; but Sam could see Al's gold sneakers quiver as his knees shook, just a little. The form raised its shoulders in a shrug, then it turned back to Sam. The head tilted to the side, as if it were studying him. Slowly the miasma sank downward, head lowered, its skirt spreading out at the bottom. At that point it faded out and disappeared.

Lightning illuminated the room once again, yet still no one moved or spoke. Then Rose opened a drawer in the table beside her and pulled out a box of matches. The flare of the match as she struck it looked unnaturally bright, but the glow of the single candle she lit flooded the room with warmth.

"It was Agatha," she said matter-of-factly, shaking out the match. "Thaddeus' wife. That was just her way of letting us know everything's all right." She sat back down as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. That broke the spell, and everyone began murmuring at once.

-"Did you see that?"

-"What _was_ it?"

-"Scared me half to death!"

-Jeanne said, "She _likes_ me!"

Not that anyone else could tell, but Al was the only silent member of the party. He stood rooted to the spot; the ash from his forgotten cigar fell off and disappeared.

"Well, ahem, light another candle Mother and I'll go with Susan to change the fuse," Charles said. His voice shook a little.

Rose lit two more candles, handing one to Charles who left with Susan on their errand. "Come with me Dottie, I want to go get Cyrus' watch. Somehow it makes me feel closer to him right now."

"I wanna go, too," Jeanne said. They left, leaving Sam alone with Al.

"Sam, that thing could see me," Al said without inflection. "It looked right _at_ me." Al was not a man who was easily frightened, but he wasn't at all sure what had really happened. He remembered his cigar and took a puff; the normal action seemed to help relax him.

"I think it saw me, too," Sam responded.

"Of _course_ it did, it curtseyed to you, didn't you catch that part?" Al seemed more animated now.

"No, I mean it saw _me_, Sam Beckett – not Steven Carmichael," he said. "It knew who I really was, and I think it was thanking me for fixing things up for the family. I _did_ fix everything, didn't I?"

Al looked around the room rather warily, but seemed to accept that the ghost – if that was what it was – was gone. He pulled the handlink from his pocket and poked at its buttons.

"Well, yeah," he said hesitantly. "It's touch and go for awhile, but Charles manages to keep the house and Jeanne doesn't run away and become a hippie. Rose passes away in a few years, but Matthew and Dottie are still living here! Charles mellows after all this, he grows closer to Steven who settles down and takes over the business and does all right with it."

"What happens to Jeanne?" Sam asked.

"Well, you see, there wasn't enough money to send her to college," Al said. "She gets married, and divorced; she works at several jobs but nothing seems to stick and she moves back here and does a bunch of nothing. It's a shame, too; with all the artistic talent in the family she could've done really well. But you saved her life, Sam; that's the important part."

"And the murder turned out to be the key, _despite_ what Ziggy said," Sam said with only a trace of smugness. "It just doesn't seem right that I saved her life only for her to spend it holed up here like a hermit."

Al used the cigar to point at Sam. "You can't have everything," he said reasonably. The lights blinked back on, startling them both.

"Then why haven't I Leaped?"

Al looked thoughtful for a moment, then he gave up, saying, "I don't know."

"Well, _I_, do," Sam said. "I've got an idea!"

"What kind of idea, Uncle Steven?" asked Jeanne. She was running ahead of her mother and grandmother now that the lights were back on.

"You seem to be full of them," Adele remarked as she walked in. "What's on your mind now?"

"Why don't we wait until everyone's back and then I'll tell you," he suggested.

"We're back," Charles said as he and Susan arrived. "Susan, I must apologize to you. I'm afraid I've taken you for granted all these years – I never realized how much you do around here! We'd still be in the dark if you hadn't known how to change that fuse."

Susan looked more than a little surprised. "Thank you, Sir," she said a trifle uncomfortably.

"Okay, Son, let's hear your idea. Then we need to get busy; I've got work to do and Susan must start dinner soon or we'll all starve." The words might've sounded peremptory, except for his light tone.

"Well, work is what I had in mind," Sam said. "Grandfather was going to sell this house to raise the money to get the business back on track, right?"

"Oh, Steven, _please_ don't suggest we sell the house," Dottie pleaded. "Not after all we've been through."

"Oh, no, that's not what I meant at all," Sam hastened to tell her. "In fact, I think we should keep it. But it's so big, there's all those closed-up rooms…what if we turned it into a bed and breakfast? We could take advantage of all the supernatural, uh, _rumors_; people love haunted houses."

Charles didn't seem to know what to make of the suggestion, but Adele clapped her hands with glee. "What a frightfully _perfect_ solution! I think I could _adjust_ some of my photographs, suggesting they've caught a glimpse of something otherworldly."

"Ve vouldn't haf to suggest doors that open by themselves," Susan said, smiling.

"We'd tell them the stories about Agatha and Cyrus and they'd be up all night hoping to catch a glimpse of their spirits," Dottie added. "I bet Matt could write them up so they sound really sinister."

"We could take them out to the dock at night," Sam said. "Tell them about the shoot-out with the gangsters. Although I think we should claim some unknown member of Capone's mob did the actual shooting. It sounds more dramatic that way."

"If ve vere to put a little dry ice under the dock, they vould be shakingk in their boots," Susan said cheerfully.

Charles seemed to be getting into the spirit of things. "Yes, but we should lead them through the tunnel _first_, to properly set the scene."

"I could hold séances," Rose put in. "Of course they wouldn't be _real_, but they wouldn't know that."

"It doesn't matter," Sam said. "We'd be selling fear as fun."

"Sam, you've done it!" Al said, reading from the handlink. "This becomes a really successful B and B, people come from all over to get the wits scared out of them. It makes more than enough money to pay for the upkeep of the house, which allows Charles to build the import business back up." He paused as if he had more to say. "Fear as fun," he chuckled.

"Jeanne?" Sam asked.

"I think it sounds like a lot of fun. I could wear a long white dress and run through the trees," she said. "I'd like pretending I'm a ghost."

"Oh, you'll like this part, Sam," Al said, knowing the question was meant for him. "Jeanne goes to college and learns how to put her artistic talents to work in the advertising industry. She works from this house, but that seems to be the outlet she was searching for."

"We could call it the 'Smuggler's Inn'," Jeanne said.

Sam and Al looked at each other in happy surprise. "What a great name," Al said. "The kid's advertising already."

"There's just one question left," Al said.

Sam raised his eyebrows in silent supplication of the answer.

"What do the guests do when the _real_ ghost makes an appearance?"

And with that, Sam Leaped.

Author's Note:

My thanks to John for details of the boats and the Jaguar; to my son for critique of the fight scene; and to Madders Ahatter for beta-reading and catching a couple of inconsistencies - and the idea that a ghost would see Sam for himself! All errors are, of course, mine.

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